Bad Company
by hansprinsessa
Summary: "She is madness, sanity. She is hell, and paradise." Hunting things is the family business, and sometimes business calls for keeping your enemies too close for comfort. So close, in fact, that the lines between friend and foe blur until both sides are left questioning everything. TB/SPN crossover AU. Paric centered, with a side of Destiel.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, my friends, and welcome to my new Paric AU universe. I had a hella long A/N, and I decided to put it at the bottom to spare you my ramblings about this story if you'd rather just dive right in, so skip to the end if you are nervous about this being a Supernatural crossover fic. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy :D**

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><p>"The fuck is this?"<p>

Without bothering to open her eyes, she arches one perfectly maintained blonde brow. "Hmm?"

Pam squeaks as her bare feet are forcefully shoved from the dashboard, their former resting place. She huffs as she slides her feet back into her sandals, finally opening her eyes before reaching up, sliding her sunglasses down her nose with one slender finger. She eyes her brother as he glares at her, hunched down by the passenger-side window.

"Get the stick out of your ass, Dean. It's just a car," she chides him with narrowed eyes.

Dean's mouth falls open, as if his kid sister has just stated that the sun revolves around the earth. His green eyes narrow dangerously as he repeats her words slowly, like he's speaking a new language.

"Just…a car?" he whispers. "_Just_ a car?"

"_Just_ a car," she repeats, finally sitting up from her mostly reclined position, folding her arms as she rests her elbows on the door, leaning out of the open window to peer out at him. "Four wheels. Five, if you count the steering wheel, I suppose. An engine—"

"_An_ engine?" he practically shrieks, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. "That's a '67 V8—"

"—three twenty-seven four barrel. I know," she finishes for him, mocking his deep, gravelly voice. "_Christ_, do I ever know. You recite it in your sleep sometimes."

"I should leave you in this fucking truck stop," Dean growls, before he straightens, palming Pam's face and pushing her back inside the Impala, before leaning down once again to point a finger inches from her nose as he speaks. "Nobody puts their feet on Baby_._"

"You have an unhealthy relationship with—"

"_Nobody_ puts their feet on Baby," he repeats as he straightens once again, bending down to pick up the 'supplies' he must have bought while he was inside the gas station. Pam peers out the windshield as he walks around the front of the car, quickly deducing the contents of the bag. The usual staples, from what she can see: six pack of beer, store-bought pie, a couple of magazines from the looks of it, and a bag of Skittles for her. She grins as he opens the heavy door, slamming it behind him once he folds his tall frame inside, and immediately she grabs for the bag, rifling through the contents to pull out her candy.

"Thank you," she says in her sweetest voice as she tears off one corner of the bag with her teeth.

Dean merely shoots her a dark look in response. "I've changed the rules."

"Mhmm?" she asks with a mouthful of Skittles, already searching through the rest of the bag's contents.

"Driver picks the music," he begins, pretending not to see her mouthing along in an animated way as he starts the car, the _just an engine_ rumbling to life, "shotgun shuts her cakehole, and keeps her gross feet off the dash."

She turns to look at him, offended, before she looks down at her feet. Her legs are bare and tan beneath her cutoff, faded jean shorts; her pink toenails, freshly painted at the last time they stopped some six hours before somewhere in the northern part of Arkansas, gleaming against the sunny yellow of her flipflops.

"My feet aren't gross," she mutters petulantly, before she adds in a whisper under her breath, "_Your_ feet are gross."

After straightening the strap of her buttery-colored tanktop, she pulls out the magazines as Dean peels out of the parking lot of the dingy truckstop, glancing up to watch as he takes the ramp to guide them southbound onto Interstate 30. Her eyes fall once again, grinning widely as she sees that he thoughtfully picked up the latest issue of Vogue for her, and she reaches over to squeeze his forearm affectionately as she whispers, "Thanks, big brother."

"Don't mention it," he answers quickly, shooting her a toothy grin as she pulls her hand away. "Although, you owe me. Buying that shit is fucking embarrassing."

She pulls the other magazine out, laughing as she sees the cover. "Busty Asian Beauties. Is this for me, too?"

He snorts as he shifts, hanging one tanned arm out of the window while the other guides the steering wheel between his thumb and forefinger. "I'll share it with you."

She wrinkles her nose, realizing exactly what that would entail. "I'll pass. That's what the internet is for, anyway." She's silent for a moment, before she speaks again, unable to help herself. "I suppose they don't sell angel nudiemags…"

Dean's head snaps over to glare at her, before he abruptly turns away, saying nothing.

"When was the last time you heard from Cas, anyway?" she prods her brother gently.

He's silent for a long moment, before he abruptly changes the subject. "Have I ever taken you to Louisiana?"

She considers for a moment forcing the subject of her brother's strange relationship with their shifty, eccentric angel acquaintance, but in the end, she decides to let it go. She shoves the magazines back into the bag before moving them down to the floorboard, pulling her feet up underneath her to sit Indian-style in her seat, ignoring Dean's disapproving look at her feet once again residing on the upholstery of the only _confirmed_ love of his life.

She plucks out a few red Skittles, popping them in her mouth before she answers his question. "Once or twice, just passing through. Didn't we go to New Orleans once? With Dad, around Thanksgiving? I think I was just a kid."

Dean nods his head, but doesn't elaborate, as is the usual when the subject of their father is brought up.

After a few more moments of silence, Pam shrugs. "I wasn't old enough to go with you guys on that trip. What were you hunting?"

"Him," Dean responds in a clipped tone, and no other explanation is needed. No matter how many creatures they hunted down and laid waste to, _Him_ would always be the yellow-eyed demon, Azazel, the one who killed their mother when Pam was an infant, and who was ultimately responsible for their father's death. Although Dean himself ended the demon, Pam knew he would always haunt them, and always manage to darken even the brightest days with what he had taken from them.

She had been robbed of the chance to know her mother, Mary. She had only seen pictures of the woman who gave her the blonde hair and blue eyes she sees in the mirror every day, and had known from far too early of an age that the reason their lives have been what they were as far back as she can remember, and still are, was due to her death. What had started out as a doting father had become a neglectful one when raising his motherless children took a backseat to vengeance; his entire life devoted to hunting down the demon that took his Mary's life. She had mostly raised herself, with the help of the man in the driver's seat; more of a father in his own right before he was a decade old than their dad had ever been to her.

All she had to thank John Winchester for was her finely tuned skills as a hunter. Everything else, she owed to her brother.

She swallows, her eyes dropping to her lap, watching her slender fingers as they unfold the arms of her oversized sunglasses, before shoving them onto her face once again, blocking out the bright midday sun. She sighs at Dean's continued silence, one sideways glance over at his broody expression causing her to internally reprimand herself for being so stupid as to even mention their father, and their childhood or lack thereof; touchy subjects with the both of them.

Resting her elbow against the door, she turns her gaze to watch the miles fly by, reading the sporadic road signs that are displayed here and there, becoming less frequent the further they get from Little Rock. Hilly scenery soon fades to flat, boring grasslands, and eventually she closes her eyes once again, hoping when she wakes up it will be time to get the fuck out of the car.

Dean, it seems, has other plans. She sighs heavily when she hears the opening lines of Styx pipe up on the radio, and opens her eyes again just in time to watch her brother's hand dart out, turning the volume dial up to a deafening level, shouting over the music once it joins with the vocals, "Renegade! This is my jam."

"_Every_ song is your jam, Dean," she complains, rubbing her temples, the music worsening the headache that seems to be making itself known, exacerbated by her stiff neck and back from being stuck in the car for what surely seems like a week. How many nights had it been since she slept in an actual bed? With blankets and pillows?

Another long suffering sigh escapes her as Dean begins singing along _extremely_ off key, and she sits up suddenly, reaching down into the floorboard to dig her phone out of her purse at her feet. She plops back in her seat, her fingers gliding over the screen as she prompts it to pull up their current location, breathing out a sigh of relief as she sees they're nearing Texarkana.

"Dean," she shouts over the music.

"…_judge will have revenge today on the wanted man," _Dean sings as his head snaps to face her, a wide grin on his face, the song obviously having improved his mood.

"Dean," she whines.

"Take the wheel, Sis. Guitar solo!"

Before she has the chance to protest, he lets go of wheel, closing his eyes as he begins to air-guitar with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm, oblivious as she scrambles across the center console to grab the wheel. The tires squeal in protest as she swerves before straightening them out, hissing at him as her eyes quickly dart to the signs looming above them on the interstate, "Hey, Slash, we're going to miss our fucking exit!"

Dean's eyes fly open, quickly reading the signs that hang over the road before he grabs the wheel with one hand, batting away Pam's white-knuckled fingers with the other. Immediately Pam sinks back into her seat, grabbing her phone before the question she knows is coming even leaves her brother's lips.

"Are you sure this is the exit?"

Pam lets loose with a long-suffering sigh; always the navigator, never the driver. "Yes, I'm sure. I told you back in Little Rock when we got the call, Interstate 30 to Interstate 49. Don't you ever listen to me?"

He flicks on the turn signal, cutting across three lanes of traffic to hit the exit just in time as he answers her gruffly, "From time to time."

Pam rolls her eyes as she settles back in her seat, pouring a few more Skittles out into her hand as she turns her head on the headrest, looking out the window, reading the nearest sign as they drive by.

_Shreveport, 70 miles._

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><p><strong>AN: This story has been brewing in my mind for quite a while. First of all, this is a Paric story, so don't fret Paric shippers. Although it's set in a Supernatural x True Blood crossover universe, I'm going to do my best to make sure it's not necessary for anyone that doesn't watch Supernatural to have any prior knowledge of the show. Now, to SPN fans: I have literally agonized over not having Sam in this story. I love Sam as much as Dean (although I'm a Dean stan first and foremost) but it would be too much and take away too much from the Paric storyline, I think, to include Sam too. But…**_**Pam is not replacing Sam. **_**She's still Pam, and although her relationship with Dean may mirror Dean and Sam's here and there, she's going to be very much her own person and I think she and Dean's relationship will be very much their own as well.**

**What I wanted to create here was a universe where I could have Pam and Eric meet as strangers in modern times, and hopefully have some nice slow-burn UNFness…which would obviously have Pam be human. Pam being a human and not knowing Eric means she has to have a life of her own, and I thought it would be fun and interesting to mix some of my favorite characters to achieve this, and give her the added dynamic of what Winchesters do. **

**Speaking of Winchesters, I can't possibly pretend that I can keep up with everything those boys have done and gone through in nine seasons, so forget what you know of what has happened to them on the show, especially everything that has happened to Sam, because again, Pam is not replacing Sam. I'll pick and choose what to include where it's needed, and explain it thoroughly, I promise!**

**Sorry about all these words. I hope you guys trust me enough to stick with me while I try to build this universe and get around to the Paric xD Let me know what you think! **

**Kisses, hansprinsessa**


	2. Chapter 2

A sigh of pure pleasure escapes Pam's lips as she runs her fingers through her wet hair, before leaning back into the stream of nearly scalding hot water, letting the surprisingly decent pressure of the shower beat down on the back of her sore neck.

She has so few simple pleasures in her life, such as it is; since, for all intents and purposes she and her brother have been homeless almost the entirety of her twenty-four years. Home had become the Impala parked just outside, the occasional hotel room that wasn't quite as ratty as their normal fare, a night off when she and her brother had time to go have a beer together and hit on the same waitresses to see which one of them could get the girl's number before last call.

She grins to herself. More often than not, she was victorious in _that_ game. But even that was a hollow triumph, since they never stayed in one place long enough to spend more than one night enjoying the spoils of their victory.

She shrugs, although no one is around to see it, before she sets about finishing her shower, knowing that if she uses all the hot water the hotel room has to offer she'll have to hear Dean's whining for the rest of the evening. After reluctantly shutting off the water, she steps out of the shower, reaching out blindly in the steam-filled room for a towel.

Several minutes later she emerges from the bathroom, the threadbare towel wrapped around her head and a robe draped and tied tightly around her slight frame, only to stop in the doorway abruptly.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Two sets of eyes, one pair green and one blue, end their staring contest before they both shift to her.

"No," Dean barks gruffly, turning away before he settles down on the end of one of the two double beds, running a hand down his face, a gesture that contradicts his answer.

Pam casts a skeptical glance at her brother, before turning her gaze to the other man in the room. "Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Pam," Castiel answers, tilting his head to the side as his eyes narrow in that peculiar way of his, studying her as if she's some sort of science experiment. "You're all wet."

"It's called a shower," she answers with a roll of her eyes, turning to pad barefoot over to her own bed, lowering herself down on the edge, the springs creaking under her slight frame. She flicks her wrist, gesturing at the uniform angel has been wearing since the day she met him; plain, unassuming tan trenchcoat, and his dark colored suit with a permanently badly knotted tie; still as pristine as they ever were even if she's seen him covered in blood several times over. "Humans can't…wiggle our noses like Samantha, or whatever it is you do, to get clean."

Again with the head-tilt. "Who is this Samantha?"

She sighs dramatically, never having realized until Cas came into their lives how often they use pop culture references; references that always require long-winded explanations when used in his presence. Although the angel, after spending too much time with her brother, sometimes watches cartoons (and once, porn, although that was an experience in itself), she knows there's little chance he's ever seen her childhood favorite show, Bewitched.

"Don't worry about it," she finally answers him, waving his question away with a flick of her wrist.

"It's my Grace," he replies abruptly.

"Huh?" Pam questions him.

"My angelic Grace," he explains, looking at her as if she's some sort of moron. "It keeps my vessel clean."

"That's nice, Cas," she replies with a smile, also fit for a moron, before she pulls the towel from her head, combing through her long, wet blonde hair with her fingers. "So, what did you say you were doing here?"

"He didn't," Dean suddenly pipes up from where he had gone silent on the bed opposite from her. "He said he came here to—"

"—warn you," Cas finishes for him.

"About what?" Pam asks, her fingers stilling and falling to her lap.

"It's not safe for you to be here, Dean," Cas says, ignoring her as he tends to do. "There are things going on, whispers here and there." He taps his temple, indicating what Dean has dubbed 'Angel Radio'; whatever voices he hears from his brothers and sisters. "There's something big going on in Louisiana. Something that will change the world, as humans know it to be."

"Why do you always have to be so goddamn vague?" Dean questions him, rubbing a hand down his face in frustration. "We came here for a case. We're not leaving until it's solved, and that's final."

"But Dean," Cas begins.

"But nothing," Dean responds, standing abruptly to cross the room, peering in the duffel bag where their weapons are stashed. "People have died, Cas," he contends, "Three women, by last count. A little kid. Their throats ripped out, drained of their blood. What do you expect us to do, just turn our backs and leave?" He pauses for a moment, waiting on Castiel to show his understanding, but he merely stares back, his jaw set stubbornly. "That's not what _we_ do," Dean finishes, and Pam can't help but wonder if 'we' means she and her brother, or her brother and his angel.

Her eyes dart back and forth, suddenly feeling like she's witnessing a domestic disturbance as they continue to stare each other down. She finally clears her throat, which seems to remind them of her presence, and she gives her brother a pointed glare before her gaze shifts to Castiel.

"What are you so worried about, Cas?" she questions him. "What's going to happen?"

"I can't…" he begins, shaking his head before he reaches up to run his fingers through his hair fitfully, leaving it even more a mess than his usual tousled coif. "I am not at liberty to say."

"Well isn't that just fucking dandy," Dean grinds out in annoyance.

"If I tell you," Cas starts, shooting a scathing look a Dean, "You'll try to stop it. It's already 'written in the cards'," he explains, adding the air quotes with his fingers for added emphasis as he always does when using a human colloquialism. "It has been since the beginning."

"Your point?" Dean questions him as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Cas's responding sigh is one of a man who's had to repeat himself on a subject far too often. "How many times have I told you, you can't change the future?" he asks. "This is part of _the_ grand plan, a pivotal moment in the history of the human race. Of the _world_, Dean."

"But you think, if we knew, we would somehow stop it," Pam asks, her brow furrowing in confusion.

"I _know_ you will," he responds, gifting Pam with a glance over his shoulder. "I have no doubt about that."

"If that's the case," Pam replies, "Then you must know it's something pretty bad."

"Well," Dean answers with a shrug of his broad shoulders, "Pam and I are here for a reason, and we _are _ going to find out what's going on, and kill whatever son of a bitch is responsible." He glares at Pam before he turns back to the bag, slinging it over his shoulder. "Get dressed, Pammy. And you," he turns his narrowed eyes on Castiel, "_You _need to go, if you're not going to help."

Pam watches as Cas looks hurt for a second, before he seems to decide to stand by his decision. He nods his head solemnly, and then suddenly he's gone, leaving only the sound of huge, yet invisible, wings in his wake.

The room falls silent for a moment as Dean looks down at his feet, his face creased into a frown. Pam finally stands from the bed, taking a step towards him, feeling the need to comfort him, but instead stops a few feet away. She wrings her hands awkwardly for a moment before she whispers softly, "He usually has his reasons, Dean."

He glances up at her, before he shakes his head. "He thinks he knows everything."

"He kind of does," she responds with a shrug. "I can't imagine what it's like to know what's going to happen before it happens."

"What are you saying?" he practically growls, "Are you saying we should go?"

"No," Pam answers immediately. "Just…sit down, okay? Can we get a game plan together before you march me out of here with wet hair and a robe?"

"Fine," Dean huffs, tossing the bag back down on the table, before sitting back down on the edge of his bed, watching her as she finds her laptop in her own bag and pulls it out, powering it on.

Silence ensues as she clicks away on the keyboard, reading the news articles again that caught her eye when they were hundreds of miles away from here. One death after another, the bodies so viciously brutalized and left for dead in the swampy woods surrounding Shreveport that they were blamed on animal attacks. And again, the one that truly piqued her interest, setting the case apart from werewolves, shapeshifters, or another fucking wendigo.

"Drained of blood," she reads aloud, lifting her eyes from the glowing screen to meet her brother's. "I still say vampires."

"Alright then," he answers, pursing his lips before he lets out a breath. "Vampires. Nothing we can't handle."

Pam nods slowly, lowering her eyes once again to the screen, repeating his words in a whisper.

"Nothing we can't handle."

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><p><strong>AN: I'm getting there, I promise. Reviews are appreciated as always :)**


	3. Chapter 3

Pam climbs out of the Impala, trying her best to keep herself from flashing the police milling about before she straightens up to stand high on her most prized possession, her single pair of Louboutin heels. She slams the door behind her, before smoothing her knee-length pencil skirt down over her thighs and straightening her matching blazer.

They had just come from the morgue, and the distinct morguey smell is still in her nose, the formaldehyde clinging to her favorite _look at me I'm FBI_ outfit. She turns to watch as Dean climbs from his side of the car, nearly mirroring her as he adjusts his suit jacket and then his tie, before he joins her, leaning over to where only she can hear to speak.

"What's with all the fuzz?"

She smirks, her eyes moving from one cop to another. "Being useless, as per usual. Not a single murder has taken place during daylight hours. I bet they'll be gone when the sun goes down."

"Probably," Dean replies, "Right around the time that we get back."

She hums her agreement as they both set off towards the country store, her heels clicking against the pavement. In truth, she has no idea why what seems to be the entire Shreveport sheriffs department has set up shop in this of all places, besides perhaps the smell of the fresh donuts she can sense permeating the air. The murders all took place in the woods surrounding the store, some as far as a mile away. The most recent, the _just a kid_, was found in the parking lot along with his mother when the sun rose that morning.

"Who are you?" a sudden voice booms out, and Pam glances up from where she was unconsciously searching the parking lot for bloodstains to meet the dark eyes of a rather round, bristly looking sheriff; no doubt having enjoyed a few too many of the store's donuts in his occupation of the territory.

Pam rolls her eyes, reaching for the fake FBI identification she stashed in the breast pocket of her jacket, as Dean does the same, flashing their 'credentials' quickly in the man's face before he can get a good look at them.

She's already stuffing the ID back into her pocket when Dean speaks. "Agent Page, FBI." He jerks his chin in Pam's direction, before he adds, "This is my partner, Agent Plant." It's all she can do not to roll her eyes again, wondering if he'll ever have the imagination to come up with better fake names than random band members. "We're here about the murders."

"Yeah, you and everyone else. Why is this FBI business, Agent?"

"Because we've made it our business, Sheriff," Pam replies with a smile, noticing that the man seems to just now notice her for the first time, which unfortunately she's far too used to. That, or being noticed immediately for other reasons. "Can you please show us where you found the two most recent bodies?"

The cop shrugs. "Not much to see, but sure."

He leads the way, and she follows as Dean falls into step behind her. Her well-trained eyes sweep over the undisturbed landscape surrounding them as she walks, her gaze then moving to study the old, rustic clapboard store as well, before she looks down at the crumbling pavement beneath her feet. The evidence cards soon come into view, folded into a maze of little numbered pyramids on the concrete, and she raises her eyes once again, scanning the immediate area.

"Here we are," sighs the sheriff, stroking his painfully typical cop moustache as he glances between Pam and Dean, as if he's expecting gratitude.

Dean ignores him, instead looking away at the woman sitting with another police officer that seems to be writing down everything she says. He flicks his finger in the woman's direction. "Witness?"

"Found the bodies when she opened the store this morning," the sheriff answers with a nod.

"You got this?" Dean questions Pam, lowering his gaze to the ground and the cards marking the distinct lack of evidence. When she nods, he does as well. "I'm gonna see what she's got to say."

Pam nods her agreement as he walks away, before she turns her eyes back to the crime scene. She walks the few steps towards until the peep toe of her shoe is almost touching the closest evidence card, before she squats down, perching precariously on her high heels as she surveys the scene.

No blood, none to speak of anyway. Two small pools, somewhat close together, now long since dried; no doubt from the fatal wounds to the throat that she and Dean saw on the victims at the morgue that were still on ice.

The victims weren't drained completely dry; that is almost a physical impossibility. But there wasn't much evidence of the typical livor mortis you see in most examples of the recently deceased; the gravitational pooling of blood that causes the skin to darken since, obviously, most of that blood was missing.

But it isn't _here_. A wound to the throat of the nature that all the victims suffered would have created quite the mess. A completely severed carotid and jugular, quite literally ripped out of the victim's throats, would no doubt result in quite the impressive arc of blood from the wound, leaving a bloodspatter pattern that would be unmistakable. And, she knows there's no way the victims could have staggered to here, and then dropped; a wound of that caliber would leave them with mere seconds to a minute to live, and the sudden change in blood pressure alone could leave them dead before their bodies even hit the ground.

They didn't die here. So where _did_ they die, she wonders, and how did they come to be left in this deserted parking lot?

Her knees crack in protest when she rises to her feet, turning just in time to see that the sheriff was giving her backside an appreciative glance. Even now, his eyes roam over her lasciviously, trailing down from her 'professional' amount of cleavage, to where her skirt hugs her hips, and down her legs before travelling back up again, giving her the creepiest smirk she's sure she's ever seen.

"So tell me, sweetheart," he begins, not seeming to take notice that she's already rolling her eyes. "How does a pretty, young little thing like yourself end up in the FBI?"

She smiles sweetly as she takes a step towards him, batting her eyelashes as she glances up at him. "Because I'm better at what I do than you've ever dreamed to be, _sweetheart_, even when you weren't quite so…" She wrinkles her slightly upturned nose in disgust. "…old." She grins as he looks shocked, and she leans in closer to whisper conspiratorially, "And because I keep the balls of revolting pieces of shit like you as trophies when I'm done beating you at your own fucking game."

The man stutters out indignities as he takes a step away, and she turns a grin on her fast approaching brother. "Anything interesting?" she asks him breezily as she walks to meet him halfway, turning as he does to head back to the car without bothering with parting words for the local law enforcement.

"Not really," he answers as they reach the car, peering at her over the roof of the Impala. "Just a lot of blubbering and carrying on."

"Jesus, Dean," Pam says with a sigh as she lowers herself into the passenger seat, crossing her legs primly at the ankles. "She saw a dead little boy this morning, what do you expect?"

"How about you?" he questions, ignoring her.

She can't help but laugh. "Well, the sheriff is a pervert. But other than that?" She shrugs as he starts the car, pulling out to head back to the hotel room. "I discovered that Shreveport might be home to the most ignorant and incapable law enforcement in the entire nation. Which, considering some of the cops we've met, is saying a lot."

Dean chuckles as he rolls down the window, before reaching for the knot on his tie, loosening it up before he unbuttons the top two buttons on his dress shirt. "Anything pertaining to the case?"

She sighs as she pulls her phone out of her purse, thumbing over the screen until she pulls up the pictures she sneakily took in the morgue. She gazes down at the pictures as she filters through them, one pale, bloodless, wide-eyed corpse after another, all with that same gruesome neck injury that makes even her shudder. At least, she thinks, they didn't suffer for long.

"That _was_ pertaining to the case, thank you," she answers curtly. "I meant that they're idiots, because they can't see what is right in front of their faces."

Dean makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, and she continues, "First of all, nowhere in the police reports or the autopsies does it say that they were killed elsewhere, the last two victims at least." She pauses, thumbing through the pictures until she settles on the mother of the boy, her full lips pulling into a frown as she studies the horrific injury to her neck. "It's as if they don't notice all the blood is missing. How could they miss _that_?"

"Well, you said it best, Pammy. They're idiots."

She nods, lifting her hand to her face to nibble on the edge of her pink painted thumbnail as she continues thoughtfully, "Everyone seems completely unconcerned with the similarities between the murders. Even the doctors at the morgue. Is everyone in this backwoods state fucktarded?"

"Maybe," Dean answers with a laugh as they pull into the hotel. She gets out when he does, before following him to the door of their shared room, tapping her toe in irritation while he fishes the key out of his pocket.

Once he opens the door, she follows him inside, dropping down on the end of the bed and pulling her shoes from her feet, before setting them carefully and perfectly aligned at the foot of the bed. Rubbing her sore feet, she suddenly speaks again, causing Dean to pause in the middle of stripping off his suit jacket.

"Animal attacks," she begins, shaking her head. "They think they're animal attacks. Why would they think that?"

"Beats the hell out of me," Dean answers, pulling off his jacket before starting on his tie.

"Sure, the wounds on the throat look like an animal attack," she continues, "But an animal would leave other injuries."

Dean nods. "Bites and scratches."

"Yeah," she responds thoughtfully. "But there wasn't a single mark on the vics, except for the kill shot on their necks. Not to mention, I don't know of any animals that can pick up and move a body."

She watches as her brother throws his jacket and tie down on his bed, before he turns to her with narrowed eyes. "So, either they're honestly _that_ stupid, or something else is going on."

She shrugs. "I'm betting on both."

"Well, we're going to find out," Dean answers firmly. "Tonight."

"We're banking on them also being too stupid to realize the attacks are happening at night and leaving the scene at sundown?" she asks.

"Yup," he answers, striding towards the bathroom to take a shower.

"So when the boogiemen come out of the woods for dinner, we're going to be there?" she adds, grinning at the back of his dark head.

"Yup," he repeats with a laugh.

She giggles as he shuts himself in the tiny bathroom, before she stands, crossing over to her bag to pull out some more comfortable clothes.

When the sun goes down tonight, the boogiemen looking for their next victim are going to be in for quite a surprise.

The Winchesters are what the boogiemen fear when something goes bump in the night.

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><p><strong>AN: I'm getting there, I **_**promise**_** :D Review if you have time!**


	4. Chapter 4

They had waited a few hours after dark before heading back to where the last bodies were found, parking the car about a mile down the road before they set off walking, after Pam pointed out that the rumbling engine of the Impala wouldn't help them be stealthy; a point that earned her a glare from her brother, but a good one nonetheless.

They walk in mostly silence down the deserted road, only the scrape of their boots against the pavement making any sound until she reaches into the pocket of her black jacket, pulling out her compact Beretta 9mm. She pops the clip, double-checking that it's fully loaded before locking it back into place with the heel of her palm.

She finally breaks the silence as she slips her gun back in her coat, her fingers feeling automatically for the other supplies she stashed there as she whispers, "So, what's the plan exactly?"

Dean finishes checking his own weapon before answering her. "We'll see if they show their faces. If they don't, hopefully that means they won't kill anyone tonight. If they do, we'll take 'em out."

"Alrighty," she replies with a nod, reaching up to tighten her high ponytail, leaving her curly hair to spill around her shoulders. "Are we going to split up or stay together?"

"Split up," Dean answers decisively, returning his own pistol to its prior resting place. "There's a lot of ground to cover."

She nods again. "You're right. I checked while you were in the shower…there's almost a two mile walk between the furthest two points where the bodies were found. That little store is almost the midpoint. Could be a coincidence, but maybe not."

"Well, we're almost there," Dean responds, "so we'll just split up and take different directions. Do you have your phone?"

"Yeah," she answers, feeling in her other pocket to make sure.

"You can use the GPS if you get lost," he supplies helpfully.

"Do you have _your_ phone?" she asks with a hushed laugh. "You would get lost without _me_."

He reaches out, shoving against her shoulder, sending her stumbling up the road as he answers her affectionately. "I know, _navigator_."

She grins proudly, and they once again fall into comfortable silence as they make their way down the road, until the single dim streetlight in the store's parking lot comes into view. She peers through the darkened windows as they approach, noticing that, although a few neon signs still burn inside, the rest of the store is dark; all the police officers from earlier in the day dissipating at sundown, just as she predicted.

Her eyes turn back to her brother, giving him a wide smile as she speaks in a serious tone, keeping her voice low now that they're at the scene of the crime. "So, this is where we must part."

Dean chuckles, before his face falls into a somber frown, suddenly in big brother mode. He steps closer to her, patting her pockets even as she bats his hands away. "Do you have everything you need?"

"Yes, Dean," she answers, rolling her eyes.

"Silver?" he prods.

"Yes, Dean," she repeats in monotone, before she perks up suddenly, gifting him with another blinding smile. "Hey, remember the time we raided that nest when I was in my Buffy phase and you bet me I couldn't kill half as many vampires as you could?"

Dean's eyes cut up to hers, unamused, his hand still buried in her pocket. "I do."

She giggles as she grins. "And what happened?"

He scowls as he removes his hand from her pocket, tugging the lapels of her jacket closer together before he pulls away, reaching down to make sure the thigh holster that holds her bowie knife over her dark denim jeans is securely in place. "You killed them all."

"I did," she nods proudly. "Fourteen to zero, if I remember correctly."

"Fine," he answers as he takes a step back, conceding to defeat, and no doubt still stinging so many years later over the hundred bucks he lost. "We'll meet back here in an hour."

"Okay," she agrees.

"Be careful, sis," he says softly, before he chucks her chin with his knuckles, his face brightening. "Give 'em hell."

"You too," she answers, before she turns on her heel, marching away from him.

She crosses the deserted parking lot, her steps falling silent once her boots hit the soft grass, and she reaches the woodline in a matter of seconds, hesitating for a moment before she trudges through, into the trees.

The woods are thick, and she does her best to continue in some semblance of a straight line as she ducks around tangled tree trunks, and under low hanging branches; all the while having to avoid stepping into increasingly more common swampy puddles that smell like rotten…she's not sure what, and not sure she _wants _to know.

The night is inky black, the trees hiding the moonlight from her except for the occasional sliver that peeks through the thick branches to cast silvery shadows on the underbrush. A flashlight would be nice, but she knows that would only make her more of a target to creatures whose eyesight is sharper in the dark than hers is in the daylight.

So instead, she keeps walking, deeper and deeper into the creepiest woods she's sure she's ever been in. Although the day was excruciatingly hot, a chill now seeps through the air, and the difference in temperature between the air around her and the warm pools of swampy water dotting the forest leaves a misty haze fit for something out of a horror movie.

She stops suddenly, leaning up against the trunk of a particularly large tree as she pulls out her phone, squinting against the bright light of the screen. She checks her GPS coordinates, and then cross-refrences them with the list of locations she has memorized. Here, somewhere in the near vicinity anyway, is where a woman was found dead the day before. The fourth known victim, a girl named Sookie, if you could even call _that_ a name, twenty-five years old.

She glances around, the clearing she's standing in somewhat illuminated from the light of her phone, trying to see if she can pinpoint the location of the girl with the unfortunate name's death. She takes a step away from the tree, her eyes trained down at the forest floor, when suddenly she feels the hair on the back of her neck stand at attention.

The distinct feeling of being watched washes over her, and she moves slowly, sliding her phone back into her jacket pocket. Her fingers close around the handgrip of the Beretta, comforted as always by the familiar weight of it in her palm, and making no sudden movements, she eases it out of her pocket before straightening her back.

A twig snaps somewhere nearby, and abruptly she's on full alert, raising the gun up to her shoulder level and gripping it with both hands. Although her heart is pounding, her voice is strong and sure as she raises it, shouting out into the darkness.

"Who's there?" She grins, closing one eye as she narrows the other, looking down the sights of her pistol as she whispers in a sing-song voice. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

The words are barely out of her mouth before someone takes her up on her offer, materializing out of the darkness to her right before slamming bodily into her, sending her gun flying away from her hand. She barely has time to think as she's knocked to the ground with a groan, a heavy weight landing roughly on top of her.

One of her hands flies up, clasping around her attacker's neck, somehow able to hold him at bay even as he snarls in her face, all of his human teeth covered by a full set of grisly fangs, still lengthening and extending from his gums, saliva dripping from the mess of long, narrow teeth.

She reaches blindly for her knife with her other hand, but the creature pins her arm to the ground with his knee before she can get a grip on the handle of the blade in her holster. She grunts as she tries to shove him away, but the vampire's strength is too great. All she can do is try to avoid him as his teeth gnash at her throat, her fingers digging into the cool skin of his neck as she struggles to keep his fangs from her flesh.

And then suddenly, the vampire is gone, his weight disappearing from her small frame as quickly as it came to be there. She blinks in confusion, before she sits up, her eyes widening in surprise at the commotion going on just a few feet away.

There, dangling her attacker by his throat, is without a doubt the most beautiful man she's ever seen; if, of course, she was in any situation to ponder such a thing. His short blonde hair nearly glows in the soft moonlight, his towering height leaving the vampire's boots dangling and kicking a foot off the ground. When the stranger's eyes turn to her, dancing with amusement at her former prediciment, she has to nearly bite back a gasp at he turns fully to face her, his blue eyes luminescent even in the near darkness.

_Not human_, she hears rattling around in her head, her keen senses in overdrive. _Definitely not human._

"A lady really shouldn't be wandering through the woods at night alone," the man speaks, his voice a deep, slightly accented baritone, but somehow still retaining an edge of playful boyishness.

Pam snorts as she climbs to her feet, dusting herself off. "That's nice. If I meet a lady, I'll be sure to let her know."

To her surprise, the man lets loose with a deep, amused chuckle, before his attention turns to his captor.

"Who is your alpha?" he asks in a deceptively calm voice.

The vampire hisses, his fingers clawing at the gigantic hand wrapped around his neck, as Pam looks on. "I ain't tellin' you shit," he growls.

The stranger shrugs. "Very well. Have it your way."

She watches as his other hand rises, gripping the vampire's chin, before in one fluid motion he twists his hand. Pam's eyes screw shut as she turns her head away to miss the spray of blood when he rips the vampire's head clean off his shoulders. When she opens her eyes again, the stranger throws the body, still twitching in his grasp, down to the forest floor, tossing his head onto the pile before they both begin to dissolve into gelatinous goop.

She raises her gaze when the man wipes his bloody hands on his dark colored jeans, and although his face is cast in shadows, she can see that he's smiling. "You should probably head back wherever you came from, little girl," he husks, taking a step towards her. "There's more where that one came from."

She smirks as he draws closer, her hand lowering to wrap around the handle of the blade in her thigh holster. "I'm counting on it," she answers him, her eyes narrowing as she adds, "and I'm no little girl."

At this, he looks one part confused, and one part impressed. He arches one eyebrow, leaning back on his heels to look at her more appreciatively as he speaks. "Oh?"

"Oh," she answers with a rueful grin, unable to stop herself from letting her eyes drift over him again. He's tall, impressively so, and would tower even over her brother, and she realizes they're dressed in nearly identical outfits, dark jeans and shirts, boots, and black leather jackets. He seems to notice her gaze, and his eyes take on a predatory glint as he steps even closer, his hands clasped non-confrontationally behind his back.

"Not a lady," he hums thoughtfully, "and not a little girl. If that's the case, I would very much like to know what you _are_."

"I could say the same about you," she answers quickly, lifting her chin.

"We have things in common then," he purrs, licking his lips before they quirk up into a smile. "How delightful."

"I highly doubt that," she answers, finding herself smiling again despite her efforts not to. She opens her mouth to speak again, but the sound dies in her throat when another blur comes out of the darkness.

She jumps back as another vampire attacks; this time going for her new acquaintance. The vampire is huge, burly even as a human, and from behind he twists the man's arms behind him further, one strong arm wrapping around his waist, his fangs at the man's throat.

"Duck!" Pam shouts, before she charges forward, drawing the sixteen inch knife from its sheath. She doesn't wait to see if he'll heed her warning, figuring that, if not, she'll be killing two birds with one stone. She pivots, gracefully turning as the blade slices through the air, watching as the man bends at the waist to double over just in time as the razor-sharp knife slices easily through skin and bone, severing the vampire's snarling head from his shoulders.

As soon as the vampire lets go of him, he falls forward, sending them both crashing to the ground, and a delicate _oof_ escapes her lips as the full weight of the giant creature lands on her small body. Somewhere to her right, she can simultaneously hear the body and head of the vampire she killed falling separately to the forest floor, but her wide eyes are fixated on the face looming above hers, and the two long, pearly white incisors gleaming from within his wide grin.

She tries to hide her confusion at the sight. She's encountered, and subsequently killed, hundreds if not thousands of vampires in her lifetime, but never one like this. The vampires she's come in contact with were all the same, nothing like the ones in the movies with their pointy, perfectly shaped canine teeth. Instead, like the two vampires they just killed, they had a mouthful of them; rows of skinny and almost claw-like fangs. She's never seen a creature with fangs like his, nor a vampire that could control himself once his fangs appeared.

"Get off me," she hisses suddenly, pushing against his chest, wishing her gun and knife weren't laying in the leaves and pine needles several paces out of her reach; although, she's strangely not sure if they're necessary.

His grin only widens as he wiggles against her. "Why? I think I like it here."

She can't help but smile back as her hand slips up and into her pocket, moving her phone to the side before she closes her fingers around her pocket's only other occupant. She retrieves it quickly, twisting her fingers around the chain, letting the silver cross pendant rest in her palm before she shoves her hand up, pressing it against his cheek.

He hisses in pain as he jumps off of her immediately. "What the fuck!" he exclaims, rubbing his still-sizzling cheek as he climbs to his feet, before he adds insolently, "I saved your life!"

"And then I saved _yours_," she replies haughtily as she stands, brushing off her jeans and jacket. "And I _told_ you to get off of me."

"My life was never in danger," he growls, his fingers still feeling the burned flesh beneath their fingertips. "I just wanted to see what you would do." She glares at him, unamused, as his hand drops away from his cheek. "That hurt," he practically whines, and she rolls her eyes.

"Oh, boo-hoo," she mocks, crossing the clearing to gather up her knife and pistol all while making sure not to turn her back on him, sliding the blade back into the sheath before she drops her hand, holding the gun at her side. She hesitates for a moment as she watches his cheek heal to its previous unblemished perfection, not wanting to make it known that she's unsure of herself, and of what this creature is exactly.

Finally, she reaches up to toss her ponytail back over her shoulder, before she clears her throat. "Who are you?"

"Eric Northman," he answers immediately, watching her carefully as he adds, "And you are?"

"That depends," she replies, shifting her weight on her feet. "_What_ are you?"

"Vampire," he answers easily in his gruff voice.

She nods, having expected as much, even though she still doesn't understand the anatomical differences between this vampire, and the ones lying in smoldering piles of viscera on the ground. "Well," she responds, cocking her head to the side, "I daresay most vampires know who I am, even if they don't know my face."

"Is that so?" Eric questions, taking a step closer, but he stops when he begins to raise her weapon, holding his hands out defensively in a silent gesture of _I mean no harm_. "What's your name then, sweetheart?"

"Pam," she answers curtly, before she adds with narrowed eyes, "and I'm _not_ your sweetheart."

She notices even the drop of only her first name has the intended effect, as the vampire's eyes widen slightly, before he breathes out his words, "Well, I'll be damned. You're Pam Winchester."

"In the flesh," she replies with a cocky smirk, gesturing to herself.

He smiles appreciatively at said flesh, but his eyes quickly return to hers. "Well, if I'm to die tonight, I suppose it would be an honor to be taken out by the best."

She smiles at him, not bothering to deny that she is in fact _the best_, meeting his twinkling blue eyes with her own. "I'm not going to kill you. Not yet, anyway. I have questions."

He grins, and she watches curiously as his fangs retract up in his gums, before he takes a tentative step towards her. "That's wonderful news, Pamela." She visibly flinches at the use of her full name, not sure when or even if she's ever heard someone speak it out loud, and certainly never in the almost sensual purr he just used, making the single word sound like a caress. "Any time you allow me in your presence will be time well spent, I am certain."

She struggles not to roll her eyes, not backing up this time as he takes another step towards her, and even once he looms over her she refuses to back down, not wanting to show any sign of fear. She freezes as he reaches out, glaring at him as his hand moves towards her as if to touch her cheek, but at the last second his hand diverts from its path, plucking a leaf out of her hair instead. He shows it to her as he gives her an innocent smile, before he lets it flutter to the ground, returning his hand to his side as he whispers, "How may I be of service, Miss Winchester?"

"Why are you here?" she asks, hating the sudden shakiness in her voice. "Why are you killing your kind?"

"They're not _my_ kind," he replies, "As I'm sure you of all people have noticed." He pauses for a moment. "I am killing them because, much like you I suspect, it's my job."

"Your job," she repeats, her tone disbelieving. Since when do vampires have jobs?

"My _job_," he reiterates with a crooked smirk. "We really do have so much in common, you and I."

She gives him a disapproving look, but when she opens her mouth to question him further, her phone lets out a shriek in her pocket. She glances up at him almost apologetically, holding up a single finger as if to pause their conversation as her other hand digs the phone out of her pocket. Dean's drunken face is plastered over the screen on the caller ID, and she touches the answer button, lifting the phone to her ear.

"Where the hell are you?" Dean growls into the phone before she can even manage a greeting. "It's been an hour."

"I'm…" she begins, her eyes flickering up to the man who hovers over her as he leans in closer.

"Is that your brother?" he whispers.

She pushes him away, covering the microphone as she hisses at him, "Can you shut the fuck up?" She waits until he nods, seemingly bemused, before returning the phone to her ear. "I'm heading back now, Dean."

She can hear him huff, before he questions her, "Did you get any?"

She nods, as if he can see her, her gaze returning to the vampire that still has his head attached to his shoulders as she whispers shakily, "Two. I got two."

"Ha!" he exclaims, "I got _three_. You owe me a beer."

"I didn't _bet_ you a beer," she retorts, adding softly just before hanging up, "See you soon."

She shoves the phone back into her pocket, before staring up at Eric, able to see the question perched on the tip of his tongue before he even gets around to asking it.

"Why didn't you tell your brother about me?"

She smirks. "My brother is more of the shoot first, ask questions later type of guy."

"And you're not?" he questions.

"I didn't say that," she responds with a smile. "Plus, I'm not done with you yet."

His grin is deliberately flirtatious as he responds, his accent suddenly thicker than usual, "Lucky me."

"Don't flatter yourself," she says with a roll of her eyes, waving him away with her hand.

"I always flatter myself, darling," he retorts, his grin becoming even more lascivious. He gazes down at her appraisingly for a moment, before he licks his lips, speaking thoughtfully. "You told your brother you were on your way back."

"And I am," she answers with a nod, beginning to turn on her heel. Eric's hand darts out, lightly gripping her wrist, turning her back to him. For a moment, Pam's eyes widen before they quickly narrow, jerking her arm from his grasp, tightening her grip on her pistol. He merely smiles, undaunted. "I thought you had questions for me?"

She pauses, suddenly torn. Dean would kill this creature on the spot, but she wants to know what he knows before she lets that happen. But if she stays, she knows her brother will come looking for her, taking away the opportunity to glean information that will more than likely help solve the murders they're investigating, and prevent more lives from being lost.

As if Eric knows what she's thinking, he reaches into his back pocket as he speaks. "Why don't you come see me at my bar tomorrow night." He produces a wallet from his pocket, before pulling out a sleek, black business card, unnecessarily taking her hand before pressing it into her palm. "I'll tell you everything you want to know. In exchange for a few more nights on earth, of course," he adds with a grin.

"You have a…bar," she whispers, skeptical. She glances down at the card, flabbergasted, reading the red writing on the black cardstock, before one corner of her lips twists up in a smirk. "_Blood_. Seriously?" He looks taken aback for a moment, before he nods. "Well, aren't you the creative genius."

He shrugs, looking almost hurt, causing her to laugh despite her attempt not to. "One of many business ventures," he replies.

"Well I hope they aren't all named the lamest, most stereotypical names in the entire world." She giggles suddenly despite herself, a girlish sound, before she repeats the name again incredulously. "Blood. A vampire, who has a job, owns a bar named _Blood. _That's the funniest fucking thing I've ever heard."

"I'm glad I amuse you, Miss Winchester," he says, caught somewhere between a growl and a purr. The wrinkle between his narrowed eyes fades as suddenly he's all charm once again, smiling at her as he leans over to whisper in her ear, far too much in Pam's personal space for her liking. "Tomorrow night, then. It's a date."

She pulls a face as he backs away. "I don't date men." Even though it's true, her voice trembles slightly knowing the real reason for that fact. It's not that she's not _attracted _to men…or isn't attracted to the man in front of her in particular; she just doesn't trust them, and she certainly has no reason to trust _this_ man. She forces herself to remember, he's not even a man at all. Finally, she makes herself speak, swallowing so that her voice is stronger this time as she adds flippantly, "I've got daddy issues like you wouldn't believe."

Her answer doesn't seem to faze him. "Sounds fun," he replies with that maddening smirk. "And for the record, I do not date _anyone_. But I do hope to see you tomorrow night."

"Maybe," she replies non-committedly, glancing down at the card again, wondering if getting answers will be worth what she'll have to go through to get away from her brother for a few hours.

"Have a good evening, Pamela," he whispers in farewell.

"Goodbye, Mr. Northman," she whispers back, her eyes widening as she glances up at him, very well aware that she's getting herself into something she shouldn't.

"Eric," he drawls as he spins with inhuman fluidity on his heel, turning to add quietly as he glances over his shoulder just before he disappears into the darkness of the woods, a noticeably strange look on his handsome face. "You can call me Eric."

She watches him as he goes, one hand still clutching his business card, the other hand still wound tightly around her Beretta, as if she expects him to jump back out and attack her. "Okay," she whispers into the darkness after a long moment, shaking herself when she realizes she was still staring at the last place she saw him. "Okay."

She turns, and begins to pick her way back through the woods in the direction she came, already trying to come up with a way to explain all of this to her brother. In the end, she decides not to mention it, and hope by tomorrow night she can come up with an excuse to slip away, knowing that the vampire…Eric…could possibly provide her with information that she needs.

Soon, she emerges from the woodline, waving at her brother when she spots him leans against the Impala that he must have gone to fetch. Even then, she can feel the eyes on her she could swear she had felt the entire journey back, watching her every move, or perhaps watching for something or someone to leap out of the shadows at her once again.

And even though she tried to ignore it, she was positive if she turned around, those eyes watching over would be crystal clear blue, just like her own.

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><p><strong>AN: Oh! I told you I was getting to it. Review, please? :D**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hey guys...I changed the name of this story because it's been bothering me since I first posted it, and since I'm stuck with it for a while and it was bothering me on a cellular level because it just didn't _fit_, I went ahead and changed it. Hope that doesn't cause any confusion.**

**Anyhoo, this chapter has a **_**lot**_** of information in it, so bear with me. Hope you enjoy :)**

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><p>She had been in the club for ten minutes and had yet to spot him, and he had purposefully made no move to alert her to his presence.<p>

It was a busy Friday night, even though it was fairly early; and Eric has situated himself in his normal back corner booth, an untouched glass of wine positioned on a coaster in front of him. Prior to her arrival, he had been glaring at the red logo of his bar printed in shining letters on the black cardboard as if it had offended him.

But then she walked in.

It took him a moment to contain his surprise, not truly having expected her to take him up on his offer. He sits back, spreading his arm across the back of the booth, his pale face cast in shadows from the lights of the club as he watches the top of her blonde head, the only thing visible in the crowd, as she waits in line for the bouncer checking ID's.

He smirks as he watches her eyes narrow at the bouncer when the beast of a man stares too long at what Eric is sure is a fake driver's license, but when she steps out onto the dance floor, fully in his line of vision, he finds himself suddenly sitting up straighter.

He swallows thickly as his eyes drink her in, the polar opposite of the woman he met in the woods the night before. Gone are the dark clothes, the weapons strapped to her and the severe ponytail, replaced instead by a sparkling red dress that hugs the ample curves that she seemed to be trying to hide the night before that certainly didn't go unnoticed by him. He watches her as she glances around, clutching a small beaded bag between her small hands, the crowd writhing on the dance floor to the thunderous music hiding him from her sharp gaze.

Pam sighs as she's enveloped by the crowd, clubs not exactly being her scene, and still questioning herself on coming there at all. She glances down at herself, though, and decides that perhaps it was worth it to have a reason to dress in her favorite dress for once, even if she had hide it under one of her longer coats and change shoes in the car to escape Dean's inevitable line of questioning.

She makes her way to the bar, standing up on the toes of her pumps to lean over it as she signals to the bartender.

"I'll take whatever you have on draft," she speaks with a small smile at the young man behind the bar, watching as he nods before turning around. Although her eyes are on him, examining the tattoos on his arms, as he grabs a frosty glass, heading over to pull the handle on the Michelob tap, she's suddenly distinctly aware that someone is watching her, a feeling she's beginning to loathe.

Eric finally manages to look up from the curve of her ass, nearly exposed by the short hem of her dress, to find her staring at him over her shoulder, one blonde eyebrow arched high.

And although he knows he's caught, he smiles unabashedly, and to _both_ of their surprise, she gives him a playful smirk in return, turning back to take her beer from the bartender before sliding a ten dollar bill across the bar.

Her slender fingers wrap around the cold glass before she turns, and he watches, appreciating the cat-like way she moves a little too much as she finally approaches.

"May I join you, Mr. Northman?" she asks, almost shyly as he grins up at her.

"I insist," he replies, enjoying the unhindered view of her as she slides into the booth opposite of him, her smoky eyeshadow making her blue eyes seem lighter and more glittery under the lights than in the darkness the night before. His eyes seem to drop on their own accord to stare for a few seconds too long at her bright red lips, painted to match the color of her wispy dress.

His gaze travels back up to hers when she speaks again. "You sure do clean up nice."

He smirks, smiling wolfishly at her as he takes the opportunity to adjust the lapels of his Armani suit jacket, before settling back in the booth, one long arm stretching across the back of the seat. "I was just thinking the same thing about you, Pamela."

"You can call me Pam, you know," she whispers, before taking a sip of her beer.

"I am aware," he replies, unfazed.

She rolls her eyes, reaching for one of the coasters stacked in a neat little pile at the end of the table, smirking as she glances down at the name.

"Don't say a word," he growls, and she looks up at him innocently as if she has no idea what he's talking about. He gestures to the foil-screened logo on the coaster. "I've heard quite enough out of you on _that_ subject already."

She grins, setting the coaster down before placing her glass on top of it. "Are you questioning your decision?"

"No," he answers irritably, sweeping his hand out to indicate the packed dance floor, and the busy bar, nearly every booth and table occupied. "Does it look like I made a bad business decision? It's catchy. They obviously like it."

She smirks, looking down as she lines the glass up perfectly on the coaster. "Never said you did. And I believe _they_ like your inexpensive cover charge and drink specials."

"You _laughed_ at me," he replies indignantly, leaning up to place his elbows on the table, bringing them closer together. "_Nobody_ laughs at me."

She snorts, rolling her eyes again. "Maybe not to your face."

"You also silvered me," he adds, narrowing his eyes.

"I did," she agrees, tilting her head to the side, and his eyes move down to her neck, exposed as it is by her new position and the messy bun her blonde hair is pulled back into. He tries to ignore that he suddenly feels distinctly jealous of the few stray curls that have escaped, brushing against the pale column of her throat where he surely would like his fingers to be, feeling the pulse he can see thrumming away under her flesh.

He almost jumps when he's broken out of his reverie by her voice, his eyes flickering back up to her amused expression. "I asked you to get off of me, and you didn't listen. I don't see that I had much of a choice but to defend myself."

"I've killed for less than that," he whispers seriously.

"And I usually kill vampires on sight," she replies easily.

He lifts his chin, as if to say _touché_. "But you didn't. Try, at least."

"I didn't," she agrees, pausing to lift her glass up to her lips, smiling over the edge just before she takes a sip of her beer. "And there would be no _trying_." He merely smiles serenely at her as she speaks her thinly veiled threat, as if he needs the reminder that he sits across from a hunter, a _Winchester_ no less, having casual conversation with a mortal enemy; instead fixating on her plump lips, and the movement of her throat as she swallows.

"You didn't, either."

"Hmm?" he questions her, realizing once again moments too late he was lost in thought.

"_Try_ to kill me," she presses. "Why?"

"I have no idea," he answers more honestly than he means to, watching her every move as she sits her glass back on the table, once again pondering the question he had been asking himself since the night before. At first, when looking back on his decision making during the previous evening, he had attributed it to who she was, before he remembered that was _before_ he knew how truly lethal she could be. He had felt attraction to her the moment he saw her, certainly, she _is_ a beautiful woman; but in truth it was her unimpressed attitude towards him, so different than all the other women he's encountered that tend to throw themselves at his feet, that first intrigued him.

And then there was her little display when he allowed the other vampire to attack him. _That_ he had given quite a lot of thought to the night before, his mind always circling back around to it. The fluidity of her movements, her deadly accuracy, the lack of hesitation. It was plain to see that she is a force of nature, beautiful and dangerous…even before he knew her name, and what it entailed.

And although he would never admit it out loud, he _liked_ it.

He glances up from where his eyes had fallen to her hands, wrapped as they are around her glass, studying the delicateness of her fingers that belies the carnage that he knows they've created to see her staring at him curiously. She clears her throat, before she reaches up, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as she speaks.

"Fangtasia."

"Huh?" he replies dumbly, confused.

"_Fangtasia_," she repeats with a smirk. "You should have named this place Fangtasia, if you were going to go for something _that_ fucking obvious."

He chuckles, his lips twisting up thoughtfully. "Maybe I'll change it." He smiles when she does. "Perhaps you'll want to retire from hunting one day, and come be my manager, since you apparently have an eye for business."

"That's what I'm here for, after all," she answers, running one fingertip around the rim of her glass. "Business. We have _business_ to discuss."

"Not enjoying my company?" he asks, giving her a charming grin.

"I didn't come here for your company, Mr. Northman," she replies, although she can't quite force her voice to convey a truth that she doesn't quite feel. In all honesty, she had realized earlier in the day if it was just facts she was seeking, she probably would not have come to this place she knows she shouldn't be; although she's not quite ready to analyze any other reasons for her visit.

He lifts a hand to his chest, covering his heart. "You wound me, Pamela." He grins as she smirks, rolling her eyes again as seems to be her habit, he's noticed; before he stands abruptly, offering her his hand. "Join me in my office?"

Pam stares at his outstretched hand for a moment, before her eyes flicker up to his, suddenly nervous, knowing shutting herself in a no doubt small, enclosed space with a stranger, no less a _vampire_ stranger, wouldn't be one of her best ideas. "I'd rather not," she finally replies, making no effort to move from her seat.

"And I'd rather not discuss what you are here to discuss within earshot of my patrons and business associates," he answers her with a stern edge to his voice. "In fact, I won't."

"Why not?" she asks stubbornly, and despite himself, he nearly falters as her large blue eyes meet his.

He leans down, bracing one hand on the table, the other on the booth behind her, stooping from his great height to leave their faces just inches apart. "Pamela," he starts even as he realizes how easily he could just glamour her, although for some reason he can't quite pinpoint, the mere idea of manipulating this woman causes him to bristle internally. "The patrons of my bar are human, and have no idea what I am. I do not wish for my evening to end in torches and pitchforks, as I'm sure you can understand." He pauses for a moment, his voice lowering to something even deeper. "That being said, I am not the only vampire in attendance." He smirks as her eyes drift from his. "Your bartender?" he whispers, watching as her eyes shift to the man in question, "Four hundred years old."

Pam's eyes widen ever so slightly, before she turns her gaze back to his face, struggling to keep her eyes on his own blue orbs rather than to let them fall to the lips just inches away from her own. "Do you see that man three booths down, who is listening to _every_ fucking word I say?" Eric's voice rises with his last

few words, and she turns to look just as the man's eyes grow wide at his statement, looking strangely fearful before he gathers his things and rises, scurrying away. Pam blinks at his retreating back, before Eric's deep, soft voice garners her attention again. "Does he look eighty years old to you?"

She slowly shakes her head, her mind racing. Had she honestly been so stupid as to walk into a bar crawling with vampires? How were they able to contain themselves around so many warm bodies, when every other vampire she had ever encountered lived in a constant state of blood lust? And why was that particular vampire fearful of the one that stands before her, crowding her personal space?

She glances back up at him, struggling to keep the panic that's bubbling within her off her face, watching as his lips twist up into a smirk, his eyes dropping once again to stare at her lips as he whispers, "What do you think would become of me if they knew I was sharing information that no human is aware of with _you_? Not only human, not only a hunter, but a Winchester, no less?"

She considers this for a moment, biting her lower lip thoughtfully. "What are they going to think if you take me back to your office, if they know who I am?"

His toothy grin makes her heart speed up, and she prays he can't sense it. "They will think I'm taking you back there to bend you over my desk and fuck you until you forget that last name of yours, my darling girl."

Now she _knows _he can hear her pounding heart, but she raises her chin, answering him steadily. "_That's_ never going to happen."

He grins wickedly as he stands, stretching out one large hand again. "Never say never, Pamela dear. There's always time for business _and_ pleasure."

"Maybe for you," she grumbles, knowing that not to be true for her personally, and despite her instincts screaming at her to refuse, she places her small hand in his. His hand closes around hers, and she stares down at it as he helps her to her feet. His skin is cool, but not unpleasantly so. He smirks as he wraps her hand around his elbow, and she rolls her eyes at his sense of chivalry, something she would have never attributed to a vampire.

She leans over the table, picking up her glass and draining the last sip of beer before sitting it back down, gesturing to his still full glass of wine. "Don't you want your drink?"

He stares at her for a moment, before he slowly shakes his head. "Appearances."

She purses her lips before she nods, mindfulness washing over her like a cold wave. Of course he doesn't want a glass of wine that he can't drink. He sustains his life on _blood, _and she wonders when, and _how_, she let it slip her mind she was chatting with a monster.

She shivers as she steps away from the table towards him, and suddenly she finds herself acutely aware that nearly every eye in the club is on her, and she hesitates for a moment as he begins to head towards the back of the club, wanting to avoid their gazes. But when he looks back at her expectantly, she raises her chin, before following him through the crowd that seems to part in his wake.

His hand still covers hers, a touch that feels far too intimate as she can feel every callous on his palm, piquing her interest, not for the first time, about the creature beside her; questions about his past, his age, where he has been and what he's done.

Although her brother is highly intelligent, and she knows she's tough in her own right, he had always been the brawn and she the brains. When she wasn't fighting the good fight with her brother and father, her nose was always in a book, soaking up knowledge whenever they let her rest. That little girl who read history books for fun while they were on the road, ignoring Dean's teasing in the process, seems to surface in the presence of this immortal man, begging her to ask him questions.

But in the end, she knows knowing any more about him than absolutely necessary will only make it harder to do what she'll have to do in the end.

He releases his hold on her when they reach the door behind the bar, and he opens it, stepping through it into a darkened hallway. She pulls her beaded clutch closer to her body, comforted by its contents; more silver, and her favorite knife, for what good it would do her.

She trots along after him in her sky-high heels as he strides down the short hallway, taking the opportunity to appreciate the view of his backside in his perfectly tailored trousers that a woman could only ignore if she were dead.

He abruptly turns, twisting the knob on the door at the end of the hallway, grinning as he turns to face her. His grin only widens when he sees color rush to her blush her pale cheeks, well aware she's been caught peeking, before he sweeps his arm towards the office, inviting her in.

Her eyes canvas the room, small and plain as it is, decorated only with a large wooden desk with a large leather chair tucked behind it, and two smaller chairs in front of it, the walls lined with shelves stocked with supplies. Eric steps around her, purposefully letting his hand brush the small of her back as he walks past, making his way to his desk before dropping down in his chair. He leans back, resting his elbows on the arms, steepling his fingers against his chin as he watches her take her seat.

She's all too aware of the heaviness of his gaze as she crosses her legs at the knee, smoothing the hem of her red dress down over her thighs. For a long moment, they regard each other silently, before she sighs, assuming she'll have to be the one to begin.

"Why are you different than all the vampires I've seen?" she starts, jumping in head first, figuring she's wasted enough time as it is, although it distinctly doesn't _feel_ like wasted time.

"You've only encountered vampires like the ones you were hunting last night, I presume?" he answers her question with a question.

"That's the only kind I knew existed," she answers, hating feeling like she's at a loss.

"Well, now you know you were incorrect," he explains.

"I've been hunting since I was eight years old," she says, sitting up slightly in her seat, noticing that he seems slightly taken aback by this fact. "My father hunted for twenty years. All of his contacts, all of the lore…_he_ wasn't aware there was any other kind of vampire."

"Well, looks like Daddy was mistaken," he says with a soft smile, before his mouth falls into a grim line. "You do realize any human that's gleaned the information I'm about to give you either died shortly thereafter, or was glamoured until he couldn't remember it."

"Glamoured?"

"Mind control," he replies easily.

"And have you glamoured me?" she asks, feeling anger welling within her immediately, hating the part of herself that she has been trying to ignore, the one that's been whispering that she could maybe, _perhaps_, trust this man.

"No," he answers her quickly, sitting up in his chair, meeting her eyes squarely as he reiterates in a tone he hopes brokers no argument, "I have _not_." He frowns, again wondering why it is that the idea bothers him so much, and distinctly not enjoying the feeling.

She stares at him for a long moment, before her eyes drop to the floor at her feet. "Why are you telling me then?"

He contemplates this for a moment, waiting until her blue eyes meet his again to speak. "I think you could use my help, and as much as I hate to admit it, I could use yours as well."

"How so?" she questions softly, skeptical.

He takes a deep breath that he doesn't require, letting it out slowly before he stands, rounding the desk and leaning against it, leaving the toes of his shining dress shoes just inches from her own. His hands clasp the wood, watching her expressions closely as he begins to speak. "There weren't always two species of vampires, Pamela. We've, _my_ kind, has been here since the dawn of time, as long as humans. The old ones have long since died out, despite being immortal, so how we came to be is the stuff of myth and legend."

"And the others?" she asks in a small voice, tilting her chin up to better see him as he towers over her.

"I am not certain," he whispers thoughtfully, "They are a mutation, the vampires you know of."

"A mutation," she repeats. "And how exactly has _your _kind managed to slip under the radar?"

"It's a matter of natural selection, more or less," he explains. "They've been hunted by humans to near extinction over and over again through the centuries, whereas our populations have thrived."

She frowns, not understanding. "Why? What's the difference?"

He smirks at her. "You tell me."

She cocks her head to the side as she ponders her own question, uncrossing and then recrossing her legs, an action that gets his undivided attention as the hem of her dress rides up just enough to reveal the lacy top of her black stockings, and beyond that, the black leather of a holster carrying her handgun strapped to her thigh. The sight of which leaves him shifting his weight, his pants suddenly uncomfortably tight, leaving him wondering when he became _this_ much of masochist to want one of the few people on earth that could actually do him serious harm.

She suddenly yanks her dress back down, smirking up at him when she catches him looking.

"You didn't trust me enough to come unarmed," he murmurs as his eyes rise to her face, unsure why that fact rubs him the wrong way.

"I don't go _anywhere_ unarmed, Mr. Northman," she replies, "That would be stupid. And I'm not stupid."

He smiles. "That you are not." He pauses for a moment, before he repeats himself. "Tell me what you know, Pamela."

She narrows her eyes at him and his refusal to call her Pam like everyone else on earth, before she settles back in her chair, resting her clutch against her knee. "Besides the toothy thing," she begins, gesturing to her mouth, "You're…calmer. You have control. And it's not just you," she jerks her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the club beyond the door from where the beat thrums through her still, even muffled as it is by the two doors separating her from it. "I had no idea there were more vampires out there besides you. _Me_."

"There are more than I pointed out to you," he supplies, causing her frown to deepen.

"There's no way a vampire…_those_ vampires, could control themselves in a room full of humans."

He nods, somewhat impressed by her logic. "We are more man than beast."

"And they are all beast," she finishes for him.

"They are," he speaks, reaching up to rub the stubble of his chin. "Which is one reason why we 'fly under the radar', as the saying goes."

"How's that, exactly?" she presses him.

He sighs, dropping his hand back down to rest on his thigh, hesitating for a moment with the information he has to offer. In the end, he thinks, _in for a penny, in for a pound_. "My kind has structure. A rather elaborate structure. We keep the peace amongst ourselves, as much as possible, whereas theirs thrive in chaos."

"Tell me," she demands, and he narrows his eyes at her for a moment before he continues, obviously becoming more uncomfortable the more information he divulges.

"The other breed of vampires operate like animals," he explains, "They live and hunt in packs, like wolves. Each pack has an alpha vampire. A vampire lower on the pole kills the alpha, and he becomes the alpha. An alpha kills an alpha, he absorbs the alpha's nest. Constant chaos." He shakes his head, as if he's disgusted by the brutality of it. "Our structure is archaic, but then again so are we." He smiles here, as if he's amused himself with a joke she doesn't quite understand. "European countries have vampire kings and queens. When the population of America grew, we divided the states up into kingdoms."

She stares at him, before she giggles. "Are you trying to tell me Louisiana has a king?"

He doesn't seem to understand what she finds so funny, but he slowly shakes his head. "I have a queen."

Her grin only widens. "Does she have a pretty crown?"

"Yes," he answers shortly, before he practically hisses, "Shall I continue?" She forces the smile from her face, before making a gesture for him to go on. "Each kingdom is divided into areas, that a Sheriff presides over, usually the eldest vampire in that particular area. They keep things…in order."

"Who is your sheriff, then?" she questions, trying not to giggle again over the silly titles. "The bartender?"

"Chow?" he practically snorts at the mere idea, shaking his head. "No."

"There's an older vampire in this area than four hundred years old?" she asks him with wide eyes.

"Yes," he answers her decisively. "You're looking at him."

Her face scrunches up, and as _that_ piece of information settles, her fingers tighten around her beaded clutch, drawing her silver closer. "You're…" she swallows, "How old are you?"

He looks thoughtful for a moment before he shrugs. "Not exactly sure. I was turned over a thousand years ago."

"A _thousand_?" she repeats incredulously, completely shocked. "And you're not old enough to be the queen?" She suddenly barks out a laugh, clamping her hand over her mouth, whispering through her fingers. "Sorry. I mean the _king_."

His eyes are dancing with amusement at her surprised mistake, but he slowly shakes his head. "I am older than my queen. I just have no desire to be king, which is why I chose to be Sheriff of this area instead."

"Oh," she breathes, letting her hand fall back down to her lap. She studies her fingers for a moment as she turns over this information in her head, well aware that he's studying her reaction to it. Finally, she glances up at him, asking him almost fearfully. "Why are you telling me all this?"

He regards her thoughtfully for a moment, before he speaks. "You asked me why I was hunting the vampires."

"I did," she agrees.

"Humans are not the only ones that have hunted those creatures down over the centuries," he begins, "They are a danger to us, as well. True, we are the same in some ways. We feed on human blood. We kill from time to time," he stops to give her a pointed look, but she only blinks, as if this is not something she hadn't considered. "But it is our job, and an unspoken code for most of us, especially in modern times, not to kill when it's not necessary. I feed here nearly every night, and glamour the human before sending him or her on their way, no worse for the wear."

She looks skeptical, but doesn't interrupt him. "It is important to our survival to remain undetected. Which is why humans still don't know about us. Which is another difference between us and them."

"They leave a trail of bodies," she deduces, "and you don't."

"No," he agrees, "And if a vampire in my area _should_ leave a trail of bodies, it's my duty as Sheriff to put an end to it, before it becomes public, or _your_, knowledge. Or to him, if necessary. Whatever it takes."

"So you're saying your kind are respectable monsters," she says, eyeing him with an edge of amusement.

"I suppose so," he chuckles, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair. "Order keeps us hidden, and keeps us alive." He gestures at himself. "Obviously."

"So when these _unrespectable _monsters pop up," she thinks aloud, "You take care of them as well?"

He nods. "Usually. They are universally 'kill on sight', so to speak."

"Same here," she says with a smile.

"So much in common," he murmurs as he leers at her, leaning towards her again. "Beauty and the Beast."

She ignores his advances once again, something that he's decidedly unused to. "Mr. Northman, I…"

"Eric," he interrupts.

"_Eric_," she corrects herself, before standing from her chair, uncomfortable in his close proximity, mostly because she finds she doesn't _mind_ his close proximity nearly as much as she should. She walks towards the door, before she comes back, leaning with her hands on the back of her former chair. "I need to ask you again…why are you telling me this?"

He doesn't even attempt to hide it as his eyes drift down, staring pointedly for a moment at her chest as her current position and clingy dress exposes more of what look to him to be her perfect, full breasts. She straightens, glaring at him, taking a deep breath of irritation before letting it out once more.

He smiles unabashedly, before his face grows serious once again. "Something is coming, my dear Pamela. Something big."

He looks at her curiously as his words seem to have an impact. Meanwhile, Castiel's words from the day before seem to ring in her ears, '_Something big is going on in Louisiana. Something that will change the world, as humans know it to be.'_

"What is it?" she asks cautiously, wondering if what her brother's…whatever he is…_angel_ she settles on, was talking about is in any way related to whatever Eric is about to tell her.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair again, hesitating for a moment. He looks down at his hands, speaking to them instead of her.

"In just a few days, my kind is going to reveal themselves to humans," he whispers.

"Say what?" she breathes.

"On international television," he continues, "'Coming Out of the Coffin', they're calling it."

She stares at him, her mouth slightly agape, struggling to make sense of his words. In the end, what's going on in her head contrasts sharply with what comes out of her mouth.

"I guess all of you guys are _that_ corny?" she asks.

His face screws up in confusion. "Corny?" he repeats, as if he's never heard the term.

"Blood, the bar owned by a vampire. Coming out of the coffin," she repeats, suddenly barely holding back her laughter. "That is some hokey shit."

"Pamela," he replies in irritation, "For fuck's sake. I tell you _that_, and _that's _your response?"

"Sorry," she chokes out, trying to make her tone serious again and smooth her smile into a straight line. "I'm sorry. It's just a little shocking, that's all. My brother and I both have a bad habit of laughing at inopportune times."

"I can see that," he replies, his face still stern.

"Why now?" she whispers, the gravity of the situation suddenly hitting her full force. Vampires, living out in the open, amongst the humans. Change the world, indeed. Change her _job_, for sure.

"It's been a long time coming," he explains, suddenly looking weary even as he speaks of it. "Obviously, the human population may not react well."

"I certainly wouldn't have," she answers, barely stopping herself before adding _before tonight_.

He nods, staring at her with his unblinking gaze for so long she becomes uncomfortable, before he finally speaks again. "All Sheriffs in the country are on alert. Our orders are to eradicate the pack vampires before we reveal ourselves."

She blinks as the pieces suddenly fall into place. "If dead bodies are still turning up with their throats ripped out, they're going to assume it was you guys."

"Yes," he answers simply.

"The humans will turn on you," she whispers, wondering why she's talking about _humans_ as if she isn't one.

"Yes," he repeats, "They will."

"So we—you, my brother and I—all want the same thing," she says quietly.

"We do," he responds, standing before he slowly saunters towards her. She doesn't back away even when he comes to stand toe-to-toe with her, still looming over her despite the height advantage of her heels.

His gaze focuses on his hand as he reaches out tentatively, touching a loose curl that hangs by her face, escaped from her upswept hair as he murmurs softly, "I told you, didn't I? So much in common."

She remains frozen even as his hand falls away, already becoming used to this dance, even after such a brief time in his presence. He pushes, she refuses to back down, and he pulls away before he pushes too far. "One thing, at least," she breathes.

"So you will assist me?" he whispers, his eyes dropping to her lips as he wets his own with the tip of his tongue.

She takes a deep, nervous breath, which only fills her senses with the smell of what must be expensive cologne, unable to escape him. "I thought this was a mutually beneficial arrangement?" she questions shakily.

He smirks as his eyes rise to hers once again. "I sincerely hope it will be, Pamela."

A shiver runs through her as he husks out her name, his voice somehow seeming to drop twenty octaves in the process. His eyes narrow, a predatory look suddenly painting his gaze, letting her know it didn't pass his notice, and she suddenly backs away, towards the door.

"I should go," she mumbles.

Briefly, he looks disappointed, before he nods. "May I walk you out?"

She rolls her eyes, turning on her heel, speaking over her shoulder, "I doubt I could stop you."

He chuckles as he follows her, enjoying the view of her hips moving as she makes her way through the doorway and out into the short hall. He reaches out, catching her elbow as she turns back towards the club, shaking his head.

"This way."

She hesitates for a moment, before she slides her arm from his surprisingly gentle grasp, turning to follow him to the back door of the club. The night is brisk when they step outside, and she tucks her clutch under her arm, rubbing her bare upper arms with her hands as goosebumps erupt on her flesh.

He smiles down at her as she stands there awkwardly, not knowing what to say, and desperately needing to sleep on all the information he's given her. Finally, she forces a smile to her lips as she whispers, "Have a good evening, Eric. I'll be in touch."

He nods politely. "You as well, Pamela." Suddenly, his smirk turns into something darker, and he takes a step forward as he murmurs, "I truly enjoyed your company, even if you didn't enjoy mine." Before she can stop him, he reaches for her hand, bringing it to his lips as he bends at the waist, pressing a chaste kiss against her knuckles.

Decidedly _unchaste_ is his wicked grin when he looks up at her, his fangs suddenly poking out from beneath his lip as speaks, his breath cool against the back of her hand, "My offer still stands, you know, if you're interested. I certainly am, even more so now."

Almost breathlessly, she whispers, "What offer?"

"To bend you over my desk and fuck you until you forget your last name, of course," he purrs.

She opens her mouth to speak, but it dies on her lips Eric glances up over her shoulder, his eyes narrowing at what he sees, a split-second before she hears someone clear their throat pointedly behind her.

Warily, she turns, her hand still lying in the open palm of a vampire with his fangs on display, coming face to face with none other than Dean Winchester, with Castiel at his side.

"What the _fuck_ is this?"

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><p><strong>AN: Uh-oh. Just wanted to thank you all for your kind reviews, keep 'em coming, they keep me inspired. Also, friendly reminder that this is an AU (which is of course synonymous with OOC), and might not exactly line up to your expectations of what is canon to either the TB or SPN universes, since I'm building my own :) Anyhoo, I'll try to get the newest chapter up ASAP. xo**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank you everyone for your kind reviews. I added a note to the last chapter, but I'll say it again in case anyone missed it, obviously I changed the name of this story. I realized what I **_**really**_** wanted to name it about two seconds after I posted it, and it had been bothering me like hella since then (it just didn't fit for me), so I went ahead and changed it. Hope that it doesn't cause any confusion.**

**Anyway, I'm glad some of you are enjoying this. Hope you dig this chapter too :)**

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><p>"So let me get this straight," Dean starts, his voice rough with his anger as he stares down his sister who sits on the end of her bed, her eyes lowered to her hands in her lap, looking far too innocent in her favorite Kermit the Frog pajamas. "You were with him the night before, too?"<p>

"Yes," Pam whispers, inspecting the nails she had painted Cherry-Pop red the night before in preparation for her ill-fated evening out.

Dean had barely spoken to her after he quite literally dragged her to the car the evening before, and had spent the entire drive back to the motel glaring at her in the rearview mirror as she pouted in the back seat like a child, as if she had been banished there, her rightful shotgun seat taken by Castiel.

Cas, who seemed only _slightly_ uncomfortable as the siblings fumed at each other. Cas, who only nodded as Pam relayed all the information given to her by Eric, indicating that the vampire was speaking the truth; the ominous prediction he had made when they first arrived in Louisiana was indeed the 'coming out' of the vampires worldwide.

Right or not, her brother was not pleased, and had practically sent her to bed as if she wasn't a grown woman as soon as they returned to the motel. She had complied in an effort to diffuse the situation, and, although she had hardly been able to admit it to herself, as a silent show of gratitude for not causing a scene right there in the parking lot and attacking on sight. He and Eric had glared at each other for a long moment before he led her back to the car without a word exchanged between any of them, although it hadn't escaped her notice that Eric stood by the back door of his club and watched them go; something she noticed since she, too, was peering out the back window of the Impala, watching him until they disappeared around the bend.

Now, though, after sleeping on it, and leaving her there for most of the day while he attempted to collect information she had already given him, it seems as if the silent treatment is over, and between her brother's anger and the dreaded 'I'm not mad, I'm disappointed' look on his face and matching tone of voice, she suddenly wishes they could revisit it.

"I don't understand it," Dean says, shaking his head as he crosses his arms over his broad chest. "I don't understand why you would put yourself in danger like that. After everything we've been through. After everything Dad taught us."

She chances a glance up at him, meeting his green eyes as she whispers. "I wasn't in danger."

"You lied to me," he answers, narrowing his eyes.

"I did not," she retorts, raising her chin. "I _omitted_ a few things."

He gives her a stern look that tells her he doesn't see the difference. "Did you even make any kills that night, or did you _omit_ about that too?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes," she hisses.

"Two?" he presses her.

"One," she answers with narrowed eyes. "Eric killed the second one."

"Oh, so it's _Eric_ now," he replies, "That's just _fantastic_. My kid sister, on a first name basis with a fucking vampire."

"Well, it's his name," she retorts. "What else should I call him?"

"How about 'that fucking _monster_', Pam?" he barks back, throwing his hands out at his sides. "That's what he is!"

Before she knows it, she's on her feet, one slender finger pointing in his direction. "You wouldn't _have_ a sister to treat like a fucking child if it wasn't for that _monster_, Dean."

She watches as his eyes widen ever so slightly, his hands falling back down to his sides as he whispers furiously, "What?"

She swallows, looking away, not knowing what to make of her need to defend someone she only just met. "He saved my life," she answers softly, before her gaze returns to her brother's surprised face. "I'll admit it. I messed up. One of them came at me from the side, I lost my grip on the Beretta, and once it had me pinned down I couldn't reach my knife." She sighs, hating having to admit it out loud, even if she knows she has to, to make him understand. "I was barely holding the vamp back, Dean. I was fucked. You were a mile away but…but _he _was there."

"And he saved you," Dean states skeptically.

"He did," she agrees, reaching up to adjust the spaghetti strap on her lime green tank top. "He pulled him off me. _He _made the kill. He asked him who his alpha was, and when the vamp refused to tell him, he tore his head off, right in front of me. He's telling the _truth_."

Dean snorts. "So, you see a guy rip another guy's head off, and you decide to go on a date with him?"

"Are you freaking serious?" she practically shrieks in her over-compensation, stepping forward to jab him in the chest with the red-painted nail of her index finger. "He had information that we needed. I went to get it. And I _got_ it. It was _not_ a fucking date."

Dean's eyes narrow as his gaze drops to where she still pokes him with every enunciated word, wrapping his hand around hers and looking at the back of it, as if he can see some sort of injury to her pale skin where that _monster_ dared touch his sister with his lips. Seeing nothing, of course, he tosses her hand away from him. "Well, from what I saw, it sure looked like the end of a date to me."

She scowls at him as she hisses, "Well it _wasn't_." But even as she speaks, a conversation in the dark two nights before rings in her ears.

_It's a date, then._

_I don't date men._

_I do not date _anyone_. But I do hope to see you tomorrow night._

"Look," Dean says, and Pam startles, having somehow forgotten he was even there once she got lost in her thoughts. "He's a handsome guy. I get it."

"Yeah," she replies, suddenly going in for the kill, "I bet you _do_ get it."

Dean looks taken aback. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She smiles wickedly. "Don't play dumb." She watches as her brother's eyes widen, knowing that she's struck a nerve, which is usually the case when his relationship with Castiel is brought up.

"Don't change the subject," he shoots back with a glare.

"Don't treat me like a child," she answers heatedly, "I did what I had to do._ I_ found a source of information. _I _gathered information that _we_ needed for a case."

"_We_ were handling it," he practically growls back, taking a step towards her.

"He wants to help us," she retorts, raising her voice in her growing irritation. "He's trying to accomplish the exact same thing we are."

"We don't _need_ him."

"Oh?" she asks in a nasty tone. "So you wanted to find out about the vampires outing themselves along with everyone else? Since your _boyfriend_ was so forthcoming with _that_ information?"

A positively livid look passes Dean's face as he glares at her, one that has struck fear in the hearts of many monsters and men alike, but Pam merely raises her chin in a silent dare, _bring it on_.

But Dean simply stands there, staring at her for a moment, before he turns suddenly, grabbing his coat off the back of the chair he slung it over the night before.

"Where are you going?" Pam questions him, her hand landing on her hip.

"Out," he barks gruffly.

"Dean…" she starts.

He shuts her up with another glare as he turns, checking the magazine of his pistol before clicking on the safety and shoving it in his pocket. He heads to the door, opening it before he turns back to her, prodding an accusatory finger in her direction.

"Don't follow me," he hisses.

She opens her mouth to hiss right back, something childish no doubt, but the door slamming silences her. She stares at the peeling paint over the wood for a long moment before she sighs, turning to sink down on the edge of her bed once again. She hears the engine of the Impala rev to life, and winces as she hears the tires squeal in protest as he guns it out of the motel's parking lot

It's certainly not the first fight they've had, and it wasn't the first time one of them had stormed out in the middle of an argument. And she's sure it won't be the last time. But just like every time before, she deflates once it's over, hating fights with her brother, and hating that he won't just _listen_.

She flops back dramatically on the hideous bedspread, her freshly washed hair spreading out around her as she stares up at the ceiling, wondering what she has to do to prove to him he can trust her judgment. Sure, she had broken their code. Monsters weren't allowed to live. Ridding the world of supernatural creatures was simply what they did, what they had always done.

Except…Dean made an exception for Castiel. They both had, even after angels had proved themselves to sometimes be every bit as wicked as demons.

If Dean has an _exception_, why can't she?

And more importantly, she suddenly wonders as her face screws up into a frown, why in the fuck is she considering this vampire to be _her_ exception?

A knock sounds abruptly at the door, and she freezes in the middle of running her hand down her face. Dean wouldn't knock, even if she somehow hadn't heard his car, and Castiel is much more likely to just pop in, unannounced besides the indicative fluttering of angelic feathers.

No one else knows that they are there.

Slowly, in an effort to keep the mattress from letting out a telltale squeak beneath her, she shifts to her stomach, easing up the bed until her hand disappears under her pillow. When she pulls it back out, her pistol is securely in her grip, retrieved from its hiding place. Her index finger moves to click off the safety, before she slowly climbs to her feet, padding barefoot across the room.

After a failed attempt to look through the peephole, finding that she's about six inches too short, she sighs in defeat before her hand reaches for the doorknob.

Surprise confrontation it is, then.

In one swift movement, she throws open the door, before aiming her Beretta, holding it steady with both hands mere inches from the smirking face of none other than Eric Northman.

"Is that any way to greet a guest?" he purrs, sidling up closer to the door, resting one hand against the frame, his black jeans and leather jacket contrasting sharply with the paleness of his face and the staggering amount of chest exposed by the deep v-neck of his dark grey shirt.

She watches as he lowers his head, practically looking down the barrel of the pistol, but she still makes no move to lower it as she whispers in her surprise, "How…how did you find me?"

He smiles, a flash of white teeth lit only by the lamplight spilling out from the motel room as he shrugs. "I have my ways."

She arches an eyebrow, tightening her grip around the Beretta's handle. "You mean you followed me home last night," she speaks flatly.

"Minor details bore me," he replies easily, waving her concerns away with a flick of his long, pale fingers. "I thought your brother would _never_ leave."

She lifts her chin slightly, speaking defensively. "He's coming back."

He doesn't seem the least bit concerned. His eyes drop to her weapon, reaching out to tap the tip of the barrel with one finger. "Is this really necessary, Pamela?"

"Maybe," she replies sassily, shifting her weight on her feet so that one hip cocks out to the side.

He grins, amused. "You didn't seem to think so last night," he whispers, and she rolls her eyes at his suggestive tone.

"Last night," she replies, "I came to see _you_. You were _expecting_ me. Do you see the difference?"

Nodding, he smirks. "I see it," he answers, using the tip of his finger to guide her pistol down until it's no longer pointing at his face, but squarely at his chest. "But I fail to see the problem."

"You're incorrigible," she hisses, narrowing her blue eyes.

This only makes him grin wickedly. "I think you like it," he replies confidently.

"Do not," she sneers.

"Do so." He smile only grows when she scowls, before straightening up again to his full height, peering into the room behind her. "Are we going to continue to converse like this, Pamela?"

"I fail to see the problem," she answers him, mocking his deep voice. But in the end, after holding his eyes for a long moment, she lowers her firearm to her side before she opens the door wider, turning back into the room.

When she glances back at him, he's still standing just outside the doorway, and she huffs and rolls her eyes. "Are you coming in or not?"

He smiles softly, almost sadly. "I'm afraid I need a more express invitation than that."

She smirks. "Good to know." She pauses for a moment, considering the fact that she doesn't _have _to invite him in, before she accepts the fact that some part of her _wants _to.

"Please come in, Mr. Northman," she finally breathes, watching as he nearly falls into the room, so pressed against the doorframe was he in his attempt to crowd her personal space moments before.

He smiles at her when he comes to stand right in front of her, despite there being five-hundred plus unoccupied square feet for him to choose from in the small motel room.

It's only then that he finally gets the chance to look her over, and he finds himself grinning as he leans back to get a better look. She suddenly becomes acutely aware of what she's wearing, and more importantly, what she's _not_, and she feels heat rise into her cheeks as she crosses her arms over her chest.

The action only serves to set her breasts on better display to his wandering eyes, but even as his fangs ache in his gums, his gaze suddenly comes to a stop on its appreciative path lower, and his brow wrinkles in confusion.

"What?" she snaps, after his eyes linger for a moment too long on her legs.

He raises his hand, pointing to her with one finger. "Why are there amphibians on your pants?"

She rolls her eyes dramatically as she tilts her chin up to meet his eyes. "Are you serious?"

He certainly looks serious as he replies, furrowing his brow, "Yes."

She stares at him for a moment, wondering if this is honestly how she's spending her Saturday night; educating a thousand year old creature on Muppets. "It's Kermit the Frog, for fuck's sake," she finally explains, before she turns away from him, making her way to the bed. "Do you have a problem with it?" she asks, her face twisting in confusion even as the words leave her lips, and she's suddenly glad her back is to him so he can't see her expression.

Eric shakes his head although she, too, is unable to see it, his eyes suddenly glued to the way the thin fabric of her pants clings to her hips, and the little strip of tanned skin visible just above it as she flounces away, her movements riding her shirt up ever so slightly, just enough to reveal the little twin dimples on her lower back that he suddenly wants nothing more in the world but to touch.

She turns, dropping down on the end of her bed, looking up at him expectantly as she speaks. "They're pajamas, Eric. Don't you wear pajama pants?"

He swallows as he glances up to meet her eyes before he speaks in a suddenly hoarse whisper, "No." Her eyebrow arches at his sudden change in tone, and he clears his throat, before forcing a leer to his face, raising an eyebrow as he rocks back on his heels. "I have no need for them. I rest in the nude."

"Of course you do," she replies, rolling her eyes again. "Silly me."

"Silly you," he repeats as he slowly strolls over to her, and although he could sit anywhere else, he somehow folds his frame beside her on the end of the twin bed, nudging her shoulder with his until she scoots over to give him room.

She turns her head, eyeing him warily as he sits beside her, his eyes scouring the tiny motel room. She glances down in her lap where her pistol still sits, her hand still tightened around its grip, and she knows it should give her some sense of security when sharing such close quarters with a thousand year old vampire.

She knows she should _need_ that security.

But yet, even still, she finds herself locking the safety, before she lays it down on the bedspread beside her. The action doesn't go unnoticed by Eric, and out of the corner of her eye she sees him watching her with interest, and when she turns her head to face him once again, they hold each other's eyes silently for a long moment, as if sizing each other up.

"What are you doing here, Eric?" she finally whispers.

He smirks, before he looks away, she could swear almost shyly. His eyes again glance around the small room, before he shrugs.

"I'd be happy to put you and your brother up in a nicer hotel," he replies after a moment, ignoring her question altogether. "While we're working together, that is."

"That's not necessary," she answers, shaking her head, sending her blonde curls tumbling around her shoulders, almost offended by his offer, since this particular motel is nicer than quite a few they've stayed in. "And for the record, we aren't working together."

His gaze turns back to hers, and she looks away to escape his sharp blue eyes as he speaks. "We aren't?"

"Not officially, no," she replies.

"Your brother," he states with a nod, as if he's figured everything out.

"My brother," she repeats simply, not feeling the need to elaborate.

Eric sighs, rubbing his hands down his thighs over his jeans before he rests them on his knees. He had been uncharacteristically wary in the presence of Dean Winchester the night before, although it had little to do with staring down one of the two humans he would willingly give enough credit to say could possibly do him bodily harm that he couldn't heal from; the other half of that pair sits beside him now, her sweet, feminine, clean scent and blood thrumming in his ears making his mouth nearly water.

Instead, he found himself not wanting to alienate the woman he had spent the evening with by picking a fight with her brother just to prove to himself he could best the hunter with the worst reputation in the country; a realization that had been eating at him from the moment the taillights of their car disappeared from his view. Another decision that had been eating him was the one that left him launching himself into the night air, following them to this hovel they're staying in, lingering in the woods across the street for far too long before he turned back.

He had never been so intrigued by anyone in his long life, and the problem was growing steadily worse. From the first night he saw her, dressed in leather and wielding weapons expertly, to the woman who walked into his bar the night before, making his jaw practically drop in _that_ dress. To the girl that sits beside him, the green face of a cartoon character grinning happily up at him from her pants as his downcast eyes stare, unfocused.

She won't get out of his mind. He wants her, although he's still not sure for what. He doesn't understand it, and he simultaneously likes it and loathes it.

Humans had always been nothing more to him but food, and a warm body to find whatever relief he was seeking within. He didn't converse with them. He didn't ask them questions. He certainly didn't call on them simply because he couldn't stop thinking about them, quite literally from the moment the sun set and brought him to life once again.

But yet, here he is, basking in the presence of a human woman who he knows to be more lethal than even the oldest vampire queens he's known in his lifetime.

He turns his head to look at her as he leans back slightly, resting his weight on his hands behind him, his pale fingers spread against the dark colors of the bedspread. Her face is still turned mostly away from him, pointedly studying everything but him in the room in silence, and he gladly takes the opportunity to view her so unhindered by the glare she always seems to have fixated on him. In the soft light of the room, he drinks her in; the downturned pout of her full, pink lips, her eyelashes almost brushing her cheeks, the delicate definition of her jaw and the curve of her neck, and her curls hanging messily around her bare shoulders that he'd like nothing more than to tangle around his fingers.

She looks nothing of the dangerous woman he knows her to be; like she's cast aside a mask. Suddenly, surprisingly, he realizes how much he aches to know this girl; the one she hides underneath.

After a moment, he speaks, legitimately wanting to know the answer to his question. "Do you always listen to your brother, Pamela?"

"No," she answers almost too quickly, she realizes too late, before she snorts, turning her head to look at him. His eyes are so near her own that she almost startles, and she swallows thickly before she adds softly. "Rarely, actually, if you were to ask Dean about it."

He smiles mischievously as he sits up abruptly, leaning towards her until their faces are left only inches apart. His eyes are drawn down to her mouth as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth nervously, lingering there as he whispers, "And what did Dean Winchester have to say about _me?_"

"That…" she begins, swallowing thickly in his close proximity. "That you're a monster," she finishes weakly, biting down on her lip once again in an unintentionally coquettish way. She blinks, her eyes going wide as he reaches for her, frozen to the spot as his large hand cups her face.

"Am I?" he asks softly as his fingers curve around her jaw, and her eyes grow impossibly wider at his brazenness as his thumb plucks her lower lip from between her teeth with a gentleness that catches her completely off guard, suddenly leaving her feeling dangerously exposed.

Flustered, she reaches up, wrapping her small hand around his before she pulls it away, letting it drop back to the bed between them. She stands suddenly, turning to face him, her cheeks bright pink beneath her blue eyes. "Yes, you are," she answers him, although she can't shake the feeling that she's reminding herself more so than him. "What are you doing here, Eric?" she demands again, although she sounds more weary than angry. "Cut the bullshit and the flirting and tell me."

He blinks, trying desperately to keep his eyes on her face and not let them roam down her petite frame, scantily clad as it is in that tiny wisp of a shirt that leaves nothing to his imagination that is vivid enough already. Instead, he too climbs to his feet, taking the one stride's distance she put between them. He tilts his head down to look at her, forcing one corner of his mouth to turn up into a smirk.

"I came here tonight because I was under the _impression _we had come to an agreement," he answers her, mirroring her movements as she lifts her chin, holding her eyes as he does the same. "But as it turns out, I was mistaken."

She lifts her eyebrow, watching him carefully as she responds slowly, "I guess you were, since I didn't agree to anything."

He nods his head, taking a step back, before he walks around her towards the door. "You did not," he agrees, waiting until his hand is reaching for the doorknob to add softly, "I suppose I'll be hunting solo tonight then."

Pam spins to face his retreating back as she suddenly pipes up, "Wait!"

Eric grins to himself before he turns to face her. She shuffles her bare feet against the carpet, her eyes downcast, hating herself for falling into his obvious trap, but as her eyes rise to his once again she can't help but whisper, "I'll go."

"Of course you will," he answers smugly.

"This doesn't mean I'm agreeing," she replies, pointing an accusing finger towards him. "This is a one-time thing."

"I happen to be quite the connoisseur of one-time things," he says, his grin turning into the leer she's quickly become used to.

She rolls her eyes, although she begins padding across the room. "You're disgusting."

"Thank you," he replies happily, watching her closely as she digs some clothes out of her bag. "You say such nice things, Pamela."

She only stops long enough to give him a pointed glare before she turns away, disappearing into the bathroom. A few moments later she emerges in dark jeans, a long-sleeved shirt unbuttoned over the lime green tanktop she was wearing before, and her hair pulled back in a messy bun at the nape of her neck. She ignores his heavy gaze as she crosses to the bed, sitting down on the end before she bends over to pull on her boots.

Suddenly, without her even registering his movement, he's standing in front of her, and she tries to hide just how much that startled her. She studiously ignores him until she zips up her boots over her jeans, before sitting back, only to watch him as he slowly squats down until he's on her level.

His eyes, though, are lowered, and he slowly reaches out, his fingers barely brushing the lacy trim of her undershirt's neckline, his voice only a whisper as he asks her, "What's this?"

Although her mind tells her to swat his hand away from such an intimate touch, she surprises them both when she doesn't, instead lowering her own eyes to what he's looking at: the black ink etched in her tanned skin, peeking out from just below her top. She raises an eyebrow as she replies, deadpan, "That's a tattoo, Eric."

He rolls his eyes, and she reaches up, hooking her finger in the fabric, pulling it down just enough to reveal more of the ink. His fingers don't move away, instead roaming gently across the small tattoo, following the points of the little pentagram and the starburst shape around it, and she finds herself having to suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with the odd coolness of his fingertips.

When he glances up at her, a question obviously perched on the tip of his tongue, she answers it before he can ask, stating simply, "Anti-possession symbol."

"Anti…possession?" he repeats.

"Demons," she explains. "Dean has one too."

"Why?" he asks as his hand falls away, although he makes no move to get up from his crouched position.

"Ever been possessed by a demon?" she asks with a laugh. When he shakes his head to the negative, his eyes wide, she adds softly, her pretty face falling into a sad, thoughtful frown; memories she'd prefer not to relive coming to the surface. "It's not pleasant. Trying to avoid it."

He blinks as he looks up to her face, honestly realizing for the first time the life this girl must lead. Her words from the night before come back to him; words that even then caught him off guard, _I've been hunting since I was eight years old_. It's truly not often he comes across someone who has seen and done anything that could rival the life he's led, but as he narrows his eyes at her, studying her face as if he can read her eyes like words on a page, he wonders if he hasn't found someone that _can, _even in her brief time on earth.

So young, still so new, but yet her eyes hold a weight that he sees in his own every time he glances in a mirror.

Pam can't deny the fluttering she feels in her chest, seeing such an ancient creature watching her so closely, as if she's something he's never seen before. Her smile is shaky, but she manages a breathless whisper after an agonizingly long moment. "Are…are we going to go? Or are you going to stare at me all night?"

He seems to consider the possibility for a moment before he shakes his head, rising gracefully to his feet. He extends a hand, and unlike the night before she doesn't hesitate, placing her hand in his before he helps her do the same. She quickly pulls away, though, using gathering her weapons as an excuse as she lifts her pistol from the bed behind her, before stepping around him with a quick glance up at the strange expression still on his face, making her way over to the table in the corner of the room that suddenly seems entirely too small for the both of them.

She picks up the knife that served her well the night before, taking her time in carefully tightening the straps of its holster around her thigh, acutely aware of Eric's gaze the entire time. When she turns around, she's surprised to find him holding her coat, and she eyes him warily as he holds it out to her, slipping her arms through the sleeves.

Unable to help himself, he allows his fingers to brush the back of her neck as he straightens her collar, ignoring her as she glares at him once again for his uninvited touch. She turns back to the table, shoving the gun in her pocket, before throwing her keys in the other pocket and some silver for good measure.

He smiles at her when she turns to face him. "Ready now?"

She nods, and before she can stop him, he reaches down, grabbing her hand. She squeaks indignantly as he throws open the door, pulling her out of the motel room before slamming it behind them; a wide, victorious smile on his face even as he patiently waits for her to lock the door.

When she's done, they step out into the parking lot, and for a moment she glances around dumbly before she looks up at him. "Where's your car?"

"I didn't drive," he replies easily, stepping closer to her.

"Look," she starts, "I know you can run _super_ fast and all, but I can't." He nods in understanding, still inching closer to her, and she sets her jaw angrily as she continues. "You know what, just forget it. It's going to take half the night to walk…what are you doing?"

He grins at her as his arm finishes snaking around her waist, pulling her against him even as she pushes against the hard planes of his chest. "Going hunting," he replies innocently.

"This isn't—" she begins, but her words are cut off with a shriek as his grip on her tightens seconds before he shoots up into the air, and suddenly instead of pushing him away, she's clinging to him, her arms wrapping on their own accord around his broad shoulders, hanging on for dear life. She closes her eyes tightly, whimpering even as she hears his deep chuckle, and feels it rumbling through her from where she's only just now realized their chests are pressed tightly together.

As quickly as it happened, she feels her feet on solid ground again, although she can't seem to disengage her shaking arms from around him. It's not until she feels his nose press against her hair, and his chest swell with a deep breath as he smells her, that she shoves away from him, her eyes narrowed.

"What in the actual fuck was _that_?" she screeches.

He gestures around them, indicating that they've landed in the very clearing they met in. "I told you," he replies with a grin, "Going hunting."

"Eric!" she shrieks, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "You can fly?"

His grin turns into something completely darker as he purrs, "I have _many_ talents you haven't discovered yet." He leers at her as she glares at him. "Shall I show you more?"

"No," she growls, running her fingers through the wind-whipped hair that escaped during her unplanned flight.

"Because if so, we can always go back to your room…" he adds suggestively.

"Do you _ever_ stop?" she asks him, brushing past him to the woodline.

"If you _wanted_ me to, I would," he replies, smirking at her when she shoots a glare over her shoulder, before following her as she steps into the woods, noting that this time she doesn't even bother trying to deny it.

They fall silent, walking side by side, picking their way through the thick trees and underbrush, both of them sneaking glances at each other when they think the other isn't looking.

Finally, after nearly an hour, they complete their circuit, finding themselves in the clearing once again.

She sighs heavily, turning to look at him. "I had better luck alone."

He raises an eyebrow, remembering the position he found her in. "Luck isn't quite the word I would use."

"Well," she answers, that attitude of hers bubbling up to the surface again, "At least I _found_ something."

He shrugs, staring down at her, before he suddenly speaks, trying to postpone the inevitability of her asking him to take her home, not ready to be out of her presence just yet. "It's in two days."

"It?" she questions.

"We're 'going live'," he replies, rolling his eyes at the absurd term the newly formed American Vampire League has been using in their secret meetings, considering the undead subject matter. He laughs abruptly, a rich sound that brings a smile to her face, half hidden in shadows at it is. "Oh my god, we are corny, aren't we?"

She grins as she nods her head, opening her mouth to retort, but she freezes as he suddenly stiffens, going on full alert, his head whipping to their right.

"What is it?" she questions, her hand automatically going to the handle of her Bowie knife.

"Did you hear that?" he asks, his sharp blue eyes searching the woods around them.

"No?" she answers questioningly, turning as he does, pulling the blade from its sheath, her eyes fixated on his face as she searches for some sign as to what exactly it is he's hearing.

He's quiet for what seems like a long moment, gone perfectly still, only her ragged breathing breaking the silence that surrounds her, before his head turns to look at her, his expression gone strangely blank.

"Pamela…is your brother out here?" he whispers.

Her eyes grow wide as she stares up at him, panic sweeping through her, settling cold and hard in the pit of her stomach as she whispers back, "I…I don't know where he is." She takes a step towards him, her eyes searching his face as he stands still as a statue, staring off into the woods. "Wh…why?" He still doesn't answer her, doesn't blink, doesn't _breathe_, and she slowly reaches for his hand as she whispers thinly, "Eric?"

Just as her fingers are about to brush his, he's suddenly gone in a rush of wind, leaving her standing there alone with one hand extended into nothingness, and a painful twist of fear in her gut. She hesitates for only a moment before she takes off too, dashing into the thick treeline where the branches still sway from his abrupt departure.

She runs as fast as she can, pushing her body to its breaking point until her heart hammers in her chest and her muscles burn, leaping over fallen logs and tree branches, only one word leaving her lips in a desperate, hoarse yell.

"Dean!"

She hears them before she can see them through the trees, a cacophony of sounds of a struggle, and a familiar sounding noise of pain. She bursts out into another clearing, skidding to a stop for the briefest of seconds as her eyes take in the scene before her.

The clearing is crawling with bodies, with even more littering the ground, dead or in their death throes. Her eyes shift just in time to see Eric rip the vampire Dean is struggling with off her brother's prone form. For a moment she can't seem to move as she watches him twist the vampire's head, snapping his neck as easily as she pops the top on a beer bottle, throwing the now limp body down onto the ground before offering her brother his hand.

Dean eyes it for only a moment before he takes it, and Eric pulls him easily to his feet. She watches, frozen, as the two men share a look, before Dean nods his thanks; and suddenly, the battle is back on again.

She races out into the clearing, easily severing a head from the shoulders of the vampire racing towards her brother, not pausing to watch him fall before she plants her foot, spinning gracefully to take out another with a spin of her blade. Blood showers her, but she doesn't hesitate before going after the next one, stopping a vampire on the verge of attacking Eric from behind as he tears yet another creature's head clear off.

Between the three of them, they make quick work of the crowd in the clearing. Pam is just slicing through one of the last vampires, before driving her knife home in his chest, when she feels hands grab her from behind. She manages to land an elbow against his chest just as she sees Dean heading towards her, the body of his last kill falling like a stone to the leaves lining the ground, but she hears a deep growl behind her before her brother can reach her.

And suddenly, the hands grasping her are gone, and she turns just in time to see Eric's fangs sink into the creature's neck, before he pulls back, ripping skin and muscle apart.

He throws the man to the ground, spatting out blood and part of someone's throat before stepping towards her, looking positively terrifying in the moonlight, the blood dripping from his fangs and down his chin turned black in the darkness. But when he speaks, his voice is soft, almost fearful as he whispers, "Are you okay?"

"I…" she whispers back, unable to pull her wide eyes away from him. "Yes. I'm…I'm okay."

She turns suddenly to face her brother who stands across the clearing, watching him as he shakes his knife, the blood running off of it hitting the leaves with a soft splatter. She takes off abruptly, jumping up to wrap her arms around his neck, pressing her cheek against the roughness of his as she hugs him tightly.

"Are you alright?" she murmurs thinly, feeling his arm wrap around her, holding her close.

"Yeah," he answers, as if he was never in any danger. "Of course I am, Pammy. Everything's fine."

She slowly lets go of him, lowering herself back down to her feet, her hands coming to rest on his cheeks as she whispers, "What happened?"

He shrugs, reaching up to pull one of her hands away. "It's no big deal. I'm fine."

She narrows her eyes as she steps away from him. "Fine?" she hisses. "You'd be _dead_ if…"

"…If you didn't ignore me and leave the room?" he finishes, his own eyes narrowing.

"Yes!" she shrieks, pushing against his chest with her small hands. "What the fuck were you thinking, coming out here alone? And not _telling _me?" When he looks as unapologetic, she pushes him again, barely moving his large frame. "I didn't even know where you had gone! What if you just never came back? What the fuck is wrong with you—"

"Dean!"

She turns as a gravelly voice behind her finishes her sentence for her, and she turns to see Castiel standing there, his blue eyes wide with concern, the sound of the fluttering of wings still dissipating into the night air.

He strides up to them, pushing Pam out of the way, ignoring her as she mumbles _rude_ under her breath. "Are you alright?" he asks as he reaches for her brother, but lets his hands fall away at the last minute.

"Will everyone quit fucking asking me that?" Dean growls, taking a step back. "Yes, Cas, I'm fine," he answers, before adding coldly, "No thanks to _you_."

"I came as quickly as I could when I heard your call," Cas begins, at the same time as Pam shrieks, "He was _not_ fine."

"I'm _fine_," Dean grunts, glaring between his sister and the angel.

"You were _fucked_, is what you were," she hisses back. "You would have been killed if…"

She turns suddenly, looking over her shoulder to see Eric standing there, looking somewhat amused at the new fight taking place in front of him, but obviously not eager to join the fray this time.

Instead, he surprises the shit out of at least half of the gathered party as he merely inclines his head in Cas' direction. "Castiel. Good to see you again, old friend."

"Northman," Cas greets him easily, returning the gesture.

"_What?_" Dean and Pam screech at the same time.

"You two know each other?" Dean asks, looking between them.

Castiel shrugs. "We have both been around for a long while," he explains, purposefully avoiding Dean's eyes.

Eric grins, a fearsome sight with his fangs still down, reaching up to wipe the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand as he adds, "Stands to reason we would run into each other from time to time."

"Well, _super_," Dean replies sarcastically. "First my sister, and now you?"

"Dean Winchester!" Pam barks out in a tone that sounds much more motherly than sisterly. "He just saved your life!"

"And?" Dean asks nastily.

"And?" she asks shrilly. "_And_, he saved mine!"

The reminder seems to back Dean down, although only slightly, and he turns to look past her to the vampire that still stands sentry beside her. He nods stiffly, before looking back to his sister, who still doesn't look pleased. "Thanks," he finally chokes out tersely, if only to appease her.

"My pleasure," Eric replies easily, although his eyes are once again on the younger Winchester.

She holds his eyes for a long moment, belatedly realizing despite just announcing it that he not only saved her, but her beloved brother. She turns more fully to face him as she gazes up at his blood-spattered face, but Castiel's deep voice shakes them from…whatever it is that's going on.

"What happened here?" he asks, surveying the carnage of the scene.

Eric smiles at Pam before he begins walking across the clearing to his first victim, the one he pulled off Dean. "I plan to find out."

"They just came out of nowhere," Dean adds, his eyes following the vampire's movements. "One minute I was alone, the next they were swarming on me." There's a pause, before he adds, "They're not all vamps."

"Werewolves," Eric supplies, making a face as he reaches the man who lies in a mangled pile on the ground, his chest rising and falling in his ragged attempts to breathe, his neck twisted at a disgusting angle. "Their blood tastes fucking horrible."

Dean pulls a face, and Pam rolls her eyes, watching as Eric leans over to peer down at the vampire with a broken neck. "Hello," he whispers, his fangs, exposed by his smile, glinting in the moonlight.

"Fuck you, Northman," the man wheezes.

"You know who I am, but I don't know who you are," he replies conversationally. "That's hardly fair. You have me at a disadvantage."

Pam laughs out loud at the thought of that wreck of a creature having any sort of advantage over _him_, and she clamps her hand over her mouth as he glances up at her, his eyes dancing.

His face becomes more serious as he looks down at the vampire again. "Who is your alpha?"

"Fuck you," he gasps out again, before he coughs, blood dribbling from his mouth.

Eric seems undeterred, standing upright as he casually lifts his foot, before slamming his boot down onto the vampire's broken neck, undoing any healing that may have occurred with a sickening crack. The creature sputters and cries out in pain, but Eric ignores him, keeping him pinned to the spot. "Why are you working with werewolves, for fuck's sake?" he asks him conversationally. "Does your kind truly have no shame?"

"We share a master," the man replies, an eerie smile erupting on his bloodstained face. "And there's more of us than there are of you."

"Who is your master?" Eric asks him softly.

"You'll find out soon enough," the man replies, choking on the blood Pam can hear gurgling in his throat as he smiles with his mouthful of pointed teeth. "He knows you're here." He spares a glance at Pam and her brother as he adds in a choked voice. "All of you." He grins again as his narrowed gaze moves back to Eric, adding in a choked whisper, "I'll never tell you who he is, so you might as well kill me."

"As you wish," Eric replies, holding out his hand, and Pam trots to his side, handing him her knife. She steps back, but not far enough to save her from the spray of blood as he brings the knife down, cutting the vampire's head off in one smooth stroke.

He rises to his feet as Pam nudges the vampire's head with the toe of her boot, wrinkling her nose prettily, and he wipes the blood from the knife on his jeans before he reaches around her small frame, placing it back in her holster.

He grins at her, before he turns, finding himself under the scrutinizing glare of her brother, who seems to not appreciate Eric's overly-familiar way with his little sister.

A long moment passes, before Dean crosses his arms over his chest. "You've got some explaining to do," he says gruffly to Eric, before he inclines his head, taking Pam by surprise as he adds, "I'm ready to listen."

"Good," Eric replies simply, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"But not tonight," Dean adds in a frosty tone that brokers no argument as he crosses to them, hooking his hand around Pam's elbow and dragging her away from the vampire. "I'm taking my sister home. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Dean," Pam growls indignantly.

"I think two near death experiences in twenty-four hours means you and I need to regroup," he hisses at her, raising an eyebrow, daring her to argue.

Her lips settle into an angry line at his bossiness, but she follows him when he pulls her towards the treeline, heading back to wherever he parked the Impala.

Dean stops suddenly when he hears the crunch of leaves behind him, turning to face the vampire and the angel, jabbing a finger in their direction. "Any supernatural…whatever the fuck…needs to head back to wherever they came from and leave us alone for at least a few freakin' hours, kapeesh?"

Eric stops, as if considering rather or not to listen to him, looking towards Pam. She nods her head slightly, and so he does as well, choosing not to push the issue. "Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow," Dean replies, before striding away.

Pam hesitates for a moment, watching as Castiel turns to Eric, nodding his head at him in farewell before he's suddenly gone, leaving Eric there alone, bathed in moonlight and shadows alike, bloody and lethal looking with his fangs down and shining in the soft light.

"Pam?" Dean barks from the woods.

"Coming," Pam replies softly, holding Eric's eyes, before she mouths the words _thank you_ to him. For saving her, for saving her brother, for not pushing Dean too far. Because suddenly she realizes that she _wants _to see him again, and this time, she doesn't bother lying to herself about it.

Eric grins, his soft, deep voice barely audible over the distance between them.

"Goodnight, _liten sköldmö_."

She blinks at him, whispering, "Huh?"

His grin only widens, his head tipping up to the sky before he, too, is suddenly gone, leaving her staring into an empty clearing. When she hears Dean call her name again, she turns, walking off into the woods after her brother, smiling softly to herself.

_Tomorrow._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry this one took longer to get out, but hey, within a week of the last chapter is still pretty good for me. Your reviews are highly appreciated! :D **

**FYI, **_**liten sköldmö **_**roughly translates to "little shieldmaiden", which is of course a woman who **_**chose**_** to fight as a warrior in Scandinavian folklore and mythology. So yeah…Eric's pretty impressed. Yay.**


	7. Chapter 7

Pam smiles at Dean over the top of the Impala once she climbs from the car, pointedly fluffing her curls, her smile widening into a grin when he rolls his eyes.

She had received a text only a few moments after the sun dipped below the horizon, and even before she retrieved her phone from her purse she knew who the sender would be, even though she had never given that person her number.

He _does_ have his ways.

Dean had given her a hard time from the moment she read the text message aloud, asking them to meet Eric at his club that later that night, griping away as he licked the ketchup from his burger off his fingers about catering to a vampire's whims, and _why the fuck are you wearing that_.

Her explanations of never getting an opportunity to dress nice were met only with his skeptical raised eyebrow.

Now, she smoothes her little black dress down over her thighs, jerking her head towards the front of the club.

"Are you coming in, or are you going to stand there looking like someone's pissed in your cornflakes all night?" she asks.

Dean frowns, glaring at her still over the top of the car. "I can't believe you're dragging me into a freakin' vampire bar."

"Will you keep your fucking voice down?" she hisses, her eyes darting around to make sure no one heard him. Satisfied that nobody did, she marches around to the front of the car, poking him in the chest when he meets her there. "First of all, I'm not dragging you _anywhere_. You didn't have to come." She glares at him for a moment before she adds, "Secondly, this isn't a vampire bar. It's just—"

"A bar filled with vampires," he finishes for her sarcastically.

She makes a frustrated sound, but knows she can't argue. "I hate you," she finally settles on, turning to walk towards the club.

"Love you too, Sis," Dean chuckles, falling into step behind her. The line is wrapped almost fully around the building, despite being a Sunday night; and Pam makes her way around to the back of the line, waiting for her brother to join her as he drags his feet every step of the way.

She pulls her phone out of her little beaded clutch, passing her thumb over the screen to unlock it, but a ridiculously loud, gruff voice calls her attention away from the device.

"Are you Pamela?" it asks, and she glances up to see the same bouncer from Friday night hulking over her.

She sighs dramatically, sure she's heard her full name be used more in the past several days than in the last twenty-four years. "Pam. It's just…Pam."

The bouncer looks as if he could care less. "Mr. Northman is expecting you. Come." He turns on his heel in a way that leaves Pam wondering if he wasn't formerly some sort of military like her father was, and marches up to the front door, oblivious to her struggles as she tries to ignore the nasty stares from nearly every woman in line that no doubt overheard the bouncer's statement.

She remembers all too well Eric's statement from a few nights before, that he feeds here nearly every night, and abruptly she wonders if the women standing in line in the briskness of the evening aren't here for _him_, rather they remember their nights together fully or not. Directly on the heels of that thought comes a most unwelcome sense of jealousy that trickles cold as ice down the center of her spine, although it doesn't stop her from shooting her finest glare at more than a few of the women staring at her with disgust.

As they reach the door, the man waves her in ahead of him, but when Dean tries to follow he's abruptly stopped with one large hand on his chest.

"Just her," the bouncer husks.

"That's my brother," Pam retorts, turning from just inside the club to face them.

"I don't care if he's the fucking queen of England," the monster of a man replies, eyeing Dean with repugnance. "We have a dress code."

Pam can't help but let a triumphant grin pass over her face, having argued with her brother not even an hour before when he refused to change out of his usual uniform of jeans and ten layers of cotton and plaid. But the expression quickly fades as she reaches around the bouncer, grabbing Dean's wrist, before dragging him over the threshold with her.

"Hey!" the bouncer gasps, his eyes narrowing as he reaches for her brother.

Pam drags Dean, who's busy sputtering indignities, behind her, before raising her chin at the man who now looms over her. "Would you look at that…we're both inside. Are you going to kick us out?" She raises an eyebrow as he seems to be considering it, her next words coming from seemingly out of nowhere, doubting them even as something tells her they're the cold, hard truth. "If you did, I daresay you might find yourself without a job once _Mr. Northman_ finds out."

She bats her eyelashes as the bouncer glares down at her, waiting for him to do just that, but is forced to keep the surprise from her features when he merely grunts before turning back towards the door. She blinks at his retreating back, before she turns to grin at Dean.

"What would you do without me?" she asks playfully.

"Not be here in the first place," he retorts, turning as he eyes the club in distaste.

"Come on," she chides him, looping her arm through his as she pulls him further into the crowd. "Loosen up a little. There's beer. You _love_ beer."

"Since when do _you_ do clubs, anyway?" he asks as he reluctantly trudges along beside her.

She shoots him a glare. "I _don't_."

"Right," he answers in disbelief, before he suddenly stops in his tracks, murmuring under his breath, "You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me."

She follows his narrowed eyes' gaze to the back of the club, at first noticing only Eric sitting in the exact same spot in the exact same booth he was a few nights before. His eyes, piercing even in the darkness of the bar, meet hers, and one corner of his mouth turns up in a crooked smirk, leaving her biting her lip in her effort not to return the silent greeting.

After tearing her eyes away from his, she notices that his booth is not empty. Facing she and her brother is the back of a dark brown head of hair, sticking up in every direction, and broad shoulders covered in a familiar tan trenchcoat. Her hand tightens around Dean's arm as she can practically feel him bristle at the unexpected sight of Castiel, but before he can react she's pulling him forward towards the table.

Eric's eyes are still on hers as they approach, and as they make their way through the crowd she watches him curiously as he raises his hand, never breaking their shared gaze as he flicks two fingers in the air. Her eyes narrow, thinking that he's attempting to signal her to come faster or some other domineering bullshit, but just as she and Dean reach the table, a raven-haired girl appears at their side with two frosty glasses of beer on a tray.

Pam's eyes drift to Eric, who looks rather pleased with himself and his thoughtfulness, before she thanks the girl as she takes them both, shoving one into Dean's hands. Dean, however, seems far too busy to notice as he glares at Castiel, who finally turns to look at them.

"Hello, Dean," he rasps, his perpetually chapped lips turning up into a tiny smile that fades away before he nods in her direction; his voice, as always, losing the familiar tone he only uses for her brother. "Pam."

"So nice of you to join us," Eric purrs, and Pam rolls her eyes before she lets her gaze fall on him, just in time for him to add, "Even though you're late."

She can feel her brother about to practically explode in annoyance beside her, and so there's no way she can stop her retort from leaving her mouth, even though she knows she's treading on thin ice with him as it is. "Well, it takes Dean a while to get that pretty."

When she glances over at him to see if her words have had any effect, she only sees him still glaring at the angel, who is staring back at him with wide, blue eyes, the picture of innocence. Eric invites them to sit, which only seems to cause Dean more stress as he eyes the two available spots, obviously trying to decide between having to sit next to the man who everybody but him knows he's in love with, or sitting next to a vampire he still deems an enemy.

Pam, in her ever-present quest to see her brother uncomfortable, shoves him down in the booth beside Castiel. She grins down at him as he glowers at her, before she suddenly realizes what she's done.

Eric's smile is wide as she has no choice but to slide in the booth beside him, and she glances up at him shyly before looking back down at her beer, trying to ignore him as he stretches his arm over the back of the seat behind her.

"You look delectable tonight, Pamela."

She jumps as his voice comes next to her ear, his words feeling every bit a caress; suddenly realizing that she's not the only one that enjoys making someone uncomfortable just for the sake of watching them squirm.

"No, she doesn't," Dean says in a scathing tone, and she looks across the table at him, startled.

"Gee, thanks," she mutters, running her finger down her glass, leaving a little streak in the condensation clinging to the side.

Cas looks between the three of them curiously, tilting his head to the side slightly as he seems to truly look at her for the first time. "I think you look nice, Pam."

Pleasantly surprised, not sure that he's ever paid her a compliment before, she grins. "Thank you, Cas."

Castiel lifts his chin appraisingly. "She's not even covered in blood, Dean," he states pragmatically, as if that explains everything, and she can't help but sigh at this life they lead where not being bloody isn't the norm.

Dean grunts in irritation. "Well, _excuse_ me for not wanting to hear a blood-sucking vampire tell my sister she looks _tasty_," he hisses.

Eric shrugs his broad shoulders as he leans back in his seat, countering matter-of-factly, "She does."

"Hey, dickhead," Dean starts, raising his voice as he points a finger across the table. "Unless you want to end up like your friends back in the woods, I suggest you shut your pointy fucking mouth before I shut it for you. _Permanently_."

Eric merely chuckles, folding his hands in front of him as he leans towards the table. "I'd like to see you try."

Dean is abruptly on his feet, practically snarling as he grinds out, "Let's go."

She's not entirely sure if he's about to drag her away, or if he's inviting Eric outside for a fight; as if a hunter and a vampire can have a simple barroom brawl. And suddenly, she's had enough, her tone brokering no argument as she growls at Dean, "Sit down, and get over yourself." Her eyes shift to the man in the booth beside her. "And _you_," she hisses, getting more irritated as she meets his eyes to find them dancing with amusement, "I _know_ I look fantastic. I don't need you to tell me so."

Eric smirks, looking slightly impressed. "As long as you know, that's all that matters."

"Good," she immediately retorts, pausing to take a much needed sip of her beer, practically slamming it back down on the polished wood of the table. "Can we get down to business?"

"What are you doing here, Cas?" Dean asks suddenly.

Castiel's brow furrows as he glances over at him, speaking haltingly. "You…you said last night we were to meet here to discuss the…situation."

"And what situation would _that_ be?" Dean asks, obviously on the warpath. "The one you refused to tell me about?"

"I _couldn't_ tell you, Dean," Castiel answers, his voice still as calm and level as ever. "Pam found out about it on her own. I'm here to help."

Dean scoffs, taking an angry sip of his drink. "You weren't interested in helping the other night."

"You told me to leave," Cas answers, looking at her brother in that strange way of his, as if humans and their emotions are a puzzle he's yet to solve. "Was I supposed…did you want me to stay?"

"Are they always like this?" Eric whispers, his voice a breath against her ear that causes her whole body to stiffen. She turns to look up at him, leaving their faces entirely too close together, although she makes no move to pull away. She watches, much more transfixed than she'd like to admit, as he wets his lips, his gaze lowering as her own part.

She swallows, before she breathes back, suddenly distracted. "Pretty much."

He smiles, and the continued bickering between her brother and his angel fades into nothingness in the background. This time, she doesn't flinch as his arm rises, stretching over the back of the booth again, leaning precariously closer to whisper, "However do you stand it?"

She smirks as she whispers back, "I drink. A _lot_."

He barks out a laugh that lights up his face, and she blinks before a smile of her own curves her lips, her eyes glued to the flash of white teeth, until suddenly his bright blue eyes are pinned back on hers.

"No wonder you need a distraction," he husks in a tone that has her suppressing a shiver despite her best efforts to remain unaffected.

"Who said I need a distraction?" she whispers shakily.

He merely grins. "I can tell."

She eyes him for a moment, before she shakes her head. "Maybe _you _need a distraction."

His smile only widens as she feels his fingers brush her bare shoulder, cool against her warm skin. "Maybe I do," he purrs.

"Is that what I am?" she asks, irritation leaking into her tone uninvited. What difference does it make? "A distraction?"

"No," he answers shortly, his eyes suddenly narrowing into slits as he stares down at her. His strange expression lasts only for a moment before it fades away. "You are _definitely_ distracting, however," he adds almost thoughtfully, letting his gaze roam down what little of her body is visible, although it doesn't linger, almost immediately returning back to her eyes.

She sniffs before she turns back to her beer, only to meet the eyes of her brother, who has apparently long since fallen silent in his battle with Castiel, and who is now watching the both of them with a most unpleasant expression.

"Are you done?" he asks, his voice gruff with irritation.

"Are _you_?" she retorts.

"Yes," he hisses, and the siblings share a glare, until Eric clears his throat.

"I assume you are ready to accept my assistance, Dean, and offer me your own," he states, his fingers on the hand that's not still covertly touching her shoulder without permission reaching out to fiddle with the stem on the glass of untouched wine before him.

Dean ignores him, instead asking his own question. "How do you two know each other?"

Eric pauses for a moment, glancing across the table at Castiel, before he seems to relent; allowing Dean to take control of the conversation, surprisingly enough. Still, he hesitates for a moment before he speaks, his gaze dropping to his fingers. "Castiel knew my maker."

Dean's eyes flicker to the angel's, glaring at him almost accusingly as if it's unacceptable that Castiel hasn't informed him of everyone he's come in contact with in his infinite lifetime, and Pam rolls her eyes, already beyond tired of the ridiculous attitude he's adopted this evening.

"Knew?" Dean prods, glancing between them.

Eric wavers for a moment, and she could almost swear she can feel a shift in him, his voice slightly strained as he confirms his use of the past tense. "_Knew_."

"Is he dead?" Dean asks, before he chuckles as if he's made a joke. "More so than usual, I mean."

"Dean…" Pam whispers disapprovingly as she feels Eric stiffen beside her, wishing knowing when to shut up was a Winchester trait.

"We are not here to discuss my maker," Eric says, his voice rougher than usual, and she glances over just in time to see the last of a shadow flickering across his face.

"Fine," Dean answers, holding his hands up in mock surrender.

Eager to change the subject, Pam glances around the crowded bar, before turning back to Eric. "Can we talk here?"

"No," Eric answers her, although he's still glaring at her brother, adding gruffly, "My office."

"There's no need," Cas pipes up after his extended silence. He raises his hand, his palm facing out for a moment towards the crowd behind him, before he lowers his hand back into his lap. "They will no longer hear us."

"What did you do?" Pam asks curiously, before she shakes her head, not wanting to hear him explain the complexities of sound waves; long past the point of being surprised when he breaks out a never-before-seen talent. "Never mind."

Eric seems unsurprised and not at all confused by Castiel's constant weirdness, merely shrugging as he seems to shake off his strange mood swing.

"So," he begins, "I assume your sister filled you in on our discussion the other night."

"She did," Dean answers, his still-pissy glare shifting over to her for a moment, before returning to Eric. "I'm sure you understand that we don't usually work with the monsters we hunt."

"I'm sure _you_ understand that I don't usually work with the humans that hunt monsters," Eric retorts. "But sometimes exceptions are necessary, are they not?" His gaze moves pointedly over to Castiel, before back to Dean, a small smile on his face when Pam snorts.

"Fine," Dean grumbles again. "What do you want from us?"

Eric shakes his head. "I only wish to assist you in what you are already here to do. You came here to solve the murders, did you not?"

Dean takes a drink of his beer, wiping his lips on the back of his hand before he answers. "Yeah."

Eric spreads his hands in front of him as he leans back in his seat. "Well, they're solved. Now we must do away with the culprit."

"_Culprits_," Pam interjects with a scowl, "And there seems to be hundreds of them."

"Perhaps there is," Eric responds, "Certainly more than I expected."

"Pam said you were in charge of this area," Dean asks, "How did you let this happen?"

She can tell Eric is gearing up for a nasty response, but he glances over at her before he sighs. "I honestly don't know." Everyone ignores Dean when he snorts self-righteously, and Eric continues quietly. "It's as if they all came here overnight."

"What about the werewolves?" Pam asks softly, turning her head to meet his eyes.

"_That_ I did not anticipate," he answers thoughtfully, "In the past, that was one thing my kind had in common with them. We don't associate with werewolves."

Pam smirks, remembering their conversation in his office a few nights before. "Respectable monsters."

Eric grins at her, before his mouth falls into a grim line once again. "Someone has brought them together."

"The vampire from last night," Dean says, his brow furrowing, "The one you killed. He said they shared a master."

"He did," Eric agrees.

"Who?" Castiel asks.

"I don't know," he replies, "But I intend to find out."

"We," Pam corrects him, glancing over at her brother and the angel, before turning her gaze back on Eric. "_We_ are going to find out."

He stares down at her for a long moment, before he licks his lips, nodding his head. "Yes," he whispers, never taking his eyes off of hers as he enunciates his next word as if he's not spoken it often in his long lifetime, "_We _will."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Sorry this chapter was relatively short (compared to my 10k monsters) but it was the first half of a long chapter, and there was a break here, and it was high time for an update. Next chapter is half-written. Thanks for the reviews :)**


	8. Chapter 8

They had left the bar a many hours before, about a second after Dean had decided he had gotten all the information he wanted and needed, and drug Pam from the club and into the Impala.

For once, she didn't argue; actually quite proud of her brother for, even with all of his bitching and moaning, having sat across the table from a perceived enemy, listening to the information straight from the horse's mouth and forming a plan of action.

They had swung by the motel long enough for her to change clothes, something that wouldn't be necessary if she hadn't gotten fancied up in the first place, according to him, before they headed out to the woods once again. After tromping around in the forest for a few hours, finding nothing but one wayward, now beheaded vampire, they had finally come back to the hotel, retiring for the evening.

For the most part, anyway.

"I'm just _saying_," Dean says, his words slurring as he pours more whiskey in each of their glasses, sloshing some over the edge and onto the wood of the coffee table in front of the couch they're seated on. "Things are going to be a _lot _different."

"I know," Pam says softly, taking a long sip from what has to be her fifth 'just two fingers' of her favorite liquor, feeling the warmth of it radiate through her.

Dean snorts, screwing his face up. "Fuckin' vampires. Out in the open." He shakes his head, although the action seems to cause some discord inside his drunken brain. "What would Dad say?"

"Who cares?" she mutters bitterly.

"_I'll_ tell you what he'd say," her brother continues, ignoring her, his index finger on the hand holding his drink stabbing the air between them. "He'd say," he begins, before his voice drops into his best John Winchester impression, "Dean, you keep Pam safe."

She rolls her eyes, wondering why the only time they can mention their father is when they're both well on their way to wasted. "_Pam_ can take care of herself," she mutters, polishing off the last sip of her drink before she tosses her glass back down on the table, and then sinking back onto the stiff old couch, crossing her arms over her chest with an indignant, dramatic huff.

He leans back as well, his head turned towards her with a dopey, drunken grin on his face, bumping her shoulder with his own as he answers her sincerely, "I know she can."

Pam scowls as she looks away, pulling her bare legs up beneath her. "Could have fooled me, these past few days."

Silence falls between them as Pam hunkers down in the flannel shirt of Dean's she stole and slipped on over her pink tank top. They had both been in foul moods when they returned to the motel, which was their reasoning behind having the drink that turned into several drinks; but it seems although the liquor lifted his spirits, hers had stayed sour.

She remains irritated by the way he's acted the past few nights, treating her more like a child since they arrived in Louisiana than he did when she was _actually_ a child. His lecture on 'fraternizing with the enemy' had no doubt been the cause of them coming up mostly empty-handed in their hunt earlier, his disapproving voice probably carrying for miles, scaring off every creature in the vicinity. He seemed incapable of shutting his piehole even in the car on the way back, giving her a hard time about everything from the way she had dressed the past two times she had gone to the bar, to allowing a vampire into the same room they now sit in while she was there alone.

Dean yawns loudly, letting his head drop back to rest on the couch behind him. "All this time we've been killing vampires," he begins, and she rolls her eyes as he continues, "And we had no idea there was another kind."

"Dad didn't either," she answers, covering her mouth as his contagious yawn strikes her as well.

"There's going to be twice as many of them now," he goes on, before taking another sip of his drink.

She shakes her head. "There's going to be the same amount there was before, moron," she responds, rubbing at her bleary eyes. "Besides, Eric said they are going to lobby for citizenship," she adds, ignoring his drunken snort of disapproval at the mention of _that_ particular vampire. "_That_ species of vampire we won't be able to kill, unless they do something to deserve it. Like you said…things are going to change. They'll be no different than humans."

He scowls, muttering almost petulantly, "But they _aren't_ humans."

Almost too quickly, she fires back, a hint of anger in her voice, "They _were_."

"_They_ are still vampires," he answers, giving her a look so pointed that she glances away. "_They_ are dangerous. _They_ drink blood. _They_ can and will kill you."

"Have we been hunting monsters for so long that you've forgotten what humans are capable of?" she asks.

He snorts, looking down at her skeptically. "No, but I know you can hold your own with a human."

"I can hold my own with a vampire," she growls back, tightening her arms around herself as she pouts. "Have you forgotten that too?"

He shakes his head, taking another drink, staying silent for a long moment after he falls back against the couch with a groan. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, almost resigned as he slurs his words.

"You like him," he whispers.

She gasps, turning to look at him with wide eyes. "I most certainly do not!"

"Yeah-huh," he answers, shaking his head. "I know you. I can tell."

"Obviously not," she responds shortly, before trying to pry his drink from his fingers. "You know, maybe you should go to bed. You've had too much to drink, apparently."

Dean sighs, still shaking his head as he bats her hands away from his glass. "I thought you were gay, anyway."

"Oh yeah?" she asks indignantly, "I thought _you_ were straight."

She grins as his eyes narrow dangerously. "I _am_."

"Sure you are," she retorts, triumphant. "Maybe we should just agree to stay the fuck out of each other's business, brother dear."

He seems to consider this for a moment, before he nods his head, no doubt thinking it best to agree rather than face the consequences of opening _that_ particular can of worms. He lets his head drop back on the couch again as he yawns once more, an obscene groan escaping his lips. She can hear the short hair on the back of his head scratching against the fabric of the world's ugliest couch as he turns his head to look at her, as well as feel his eyes studying her profile in silence for a long time before he speaks again.

"I just…I just want you safe, Pammy," he murmurs, and she glances up at him, his eyes narrowed into slits of sleepiness, the bright green of his orbs slightly glazed over from the alcohol, peering out at her.

"We're never safe, Dean," she whispers back, studying his handsome face, half-shrouded by the darkness of the motel room. "I don't think we've been safe since Mom was alive."

His eyes flicker away at the mention of the mother that only he remembers, before they settle once again on the face that so resembles hers. He nods slowly, conceding her point, although he still argues with her half-heartedly. "I worry about you. It's my job."

She smiles softly. "One of many."

He returns her smile, before he leans over just enough to brush his lips against her forehead. Her eyes flutter closed at the small, sweet show of affection, smiling as he whispers, "It's because I love you. For some reason."

"That's why you're a dick?" she asks with a giggle.

"Yep," he answers with a sigh, settling back on the couch and closing his heavy eyes.

"Well, congrats," she murmurs with a true smile, "You're doing great."

"I know," he mutters sleepily, "I _am _pretty great."

Her eyes roll as she drops her head to rest her cheek against his bare shoulder, closing her eyes. "You're okay, I guess," she whispers, before she adds softly, "I love you too, Dean."

His only answer is a great snore, and she snorts out a soft laugh as she nestles against him, looping her arms around his. She sighs as both his body heat and the whiskey warm her, as well as actually enjoying her brother's company for the first time after days of strain and strife between them.

For a few long moments, she stays there quietly, lost in thought; thoughts that, despite her best efforts to control them, are centered on someone else besides the man passed out beside her.

Dean's statement had caused her to bristle inside, every cell of her being fighting against the mere thought that she should 'like' the vampire that is still to her nothing less than a stranger. A rather irritating, _extremely_ exasperating stranger.

But, much to her dismay, she finds she's apparently just drunk enough to let her mind speak to her the truth. Because there, just beneath the surface, is a whisper that reminds her of just how much she thinks about that exasperating stranger, and how she couldn't quell the annoying sense of anticipation that she felt at the idea of seeing him again earlier that evening.

Her face screws up in disgust at the direction her thoughts have taken, opening her eyes when Dean shifts, his snores turning into more of an open-mouthed wheeze. She glances down just in time to see his glass slipping from his fingers, and she grabs it before it can spill on him, disengaging her arm from around his to lean forward, placing the glass on the table.

She's just settling back down, the alcohol in her bloodstream lulling her, too, to sleep, when she hears a soft knock at the door, barely more than the whisper of a rap of knuckles against wood.

Her eyes immediately glance towards the clock on the table between the twin beds, the glowing red numbers telling her it's nearly four in the morning. At first, she feels panic sweep through her, all of her instincts suddenly online and breaking through the haze the whiskey has provided her with.

But almost as soon as it comes, it's gone; instead replaced by calmness that surprises her. She bypasses her pistol where it sits on the table with its ever-present offer of protection, leaning closer to the door.

"Eric?" she whispers tentatively, in a voice low enough that it can't wake her dozing brother.

"Pamela," a gruff voice responds from outside the door, confirming her suspicions on who would dare come calling at such an unholy hour, before it continues, "I need…" She can hear him clear his throat, although his voice is still noticeably hoarse as he finishes, "I need to speak with you."

She glances down at what she's wearing; her pink tanktop stopping several inches before her cotton pajama shorts start, exposing several inches of the flat, tan plane of her belly, and her brother's plaid, flannel shirt over top of them both, hanging halfway down her bare thighs.

"Can you give me a minute to change?" she asks.

"No," comes his response, his voice sounding strained, and despite her mind telling her to invite him to go fuck himself in no uncertain terms, she finds herself reaching for the door, her curiosity getting the better of her.

She braces one hand on the door frame before she unlocks the deadbolt with the other, twisting the knob before opening it just a crack. She peers out into the darkness with the one eye she's exposed, her full lips turning down into a frown when she sees nothing but an empty parking lot.

"Eric?" she calls softly again, her hand gripping the edge of the door as she pulls it open a little wider, just enough to poke her head out. "What are you—hey!"

She cries out in surprise as a cold hand that comes seeming out of nowhere is suddenly wrapped around her wrist, dragging her out of the motel room. She stares up at him as he reaches around her, pulling the door closed behind her, as he pins her much smaller body against the wall next to it with his hips pressed against hers.

She blinks in shock, her mouth falling open, and although she makes no move to push him away it takes her a moment to regain her voice. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" she hisses, before her eyes finally search his face as he turns to look back down at her; more disheveled than she's yet to see him, his normally slicked-back blonde hair spilling over in front of his wild eyes, his shirt torn and lying agape at the collar.

She's only vaguely aware that his hands have reached for her, encircling her waist, his fingers digging into the bare skin of her hips, exposed by her too-short shirt. Instead, she's focused on the blood that streaks his cheek, before her eyes lower, seeing that he's nearly soaked in it. She swallows as her gaze returns to his face, studying his strange expression, before she whispers his name. "Eric..." She can almost swear she can feel him shudder against her at the sound of his name slipping from her lips, and slowly, as not to make any sudden movements, she raises her hand, tentatively touching the blood on his cheek with her fingers as she murmurs, "You're bleeding."

He sucks in a sharp breath when the pads of her fingers make contact with his skin, and he shakes his head tersely even as he presses his cheek against her open palm, his eyes falling closed at her touch, his deep, gravelly voice rumbling through her in their close quarters. "It's not all mine."

She makes a face, not sure she wants to know where it came from; whether or not it was blood he spilled from a willing or unwilling human, or if he had been out hunting the other vampires alone. But at the same time, she realizes she does want to know, _needs_ to know, when faced with a stark reminder of who and what exactly she's dealing with. She speaks softly, trying her best to ignore the way he's practically collapsed against her, trapping her between his body and the wall. "What happened?" Suddenly, his eyes are open, the piercing blue only inches from her own, and her breath hitches as he leans even closer, able to hear her heart pounding in her ears as she stammers out nervously, "What...what's wrong?"

She watches as his eyes narrow into slits, only the tiniest bit of glittering blue visible, and his fingers tighten around her waist as he leans closer until their lips are only inches apart, his voice low and dangerous as he repeats her question back to her in a hiss. "What's wrong?" he whispers, so close to her that she can feel his cool breath, "What's _wrong_?"

A shaky smile curves her lips, and he stares down into her wide, luminous eyes as she arches a brow. "Did I stutter?"

She can see it in his eyes the second he snaps, and in the next moment, he's baring his fangs a mere breath away from her face, snarling at her as every shred of humanness he retains melts away. And although she's sure most people who have seen the sight before her probably didn't live to tell about it, she merely lifts her chin, waiting for an explanation.

His jaw clenches, causing a muscle beside his eye to twitch. He takes a deep breath, before the words seem to just cascade from his lips in a snarl, as if they were dying to be spoken.

"What's wrong," he spits out, "What's _wrong_, Pamela, is that tomorrow night is the most important night in the history of my kind. Tomorrow night will change my life as I've known it for a millennia."

"So what?" she asks, reaching down to still his hands as they attempt to slide further up underneath her shirt. "Is that why you're freaking out?"

He releases her, pulling away just enough until where he's not touching her, but refuses to extract himself from her personal space, speaking in a whisper still so near her lips, ignoring her as if she never spoke. "I have preparations to make. Renegade vampires to kill. My own underlings to protect. So much to do, so much to think about." He pauses as he shakes his head, leaning closer, his hand rising to brush the backs of his fingers down her cheek as he asks her almost thoughtfully, "Do you know, my beautiful Pamela, what has occupied my mind instead? Since the very _fucking_ moment I opened my eyes this evening?"

Her eyes are impossibly wide as she remains frozen under his touch, before she slowly, cautiously, shakes her head.

His gentle touch suddenly turns harsh, wrapping around the back of her neck as his thumb against her chin roughly tilts her eyes up to his. "Do not play dumb, when we both know you are _far_ from it." He pauses for a moment, licking his lips, before he continues. "I went to hunt, trying to clear my head, and didn't even notice three of them until they attacked me." He raises a brow as her eyes widen, glancing down at the blood on him, and his torn shirt, before venturing back up to his eyes. "They almost got the better of me. _Almost_. Do you know what was occupying my mind _then_, Pamela?" he asks softly.

She swallows thickly as she holds his gaze steadily, unable to stop herself from melting into his touch, leaving their bodies pressed together once again. She refuses to answer, his words coming way too close to echoing her own thoughts just moments before; the mere possibility they could both be struggling with the same predicament terrifying her; _her_, the girl that's afraid of nothing.

"You are distracting me," he growls suddenly, "At a time I cannot afford a distraction."

"I thought you needed a distraction?" she asks, her voice shakier than she would like for it to be.

"Tonight," he husks, his thumb caressing the line of her jaw even as his grip remains steadfast, "I almost killed Chow for bringing me a blonde for dinner."

Her nose wrinkles, but despite her precarious position, she manages a small smile. "You don't like blondes?"

He hums deep in his throat, before he responds in a whisper, "She wasn't the blonde I wanted."

"I'm not going to be your dinner, Eric," she responds steadily, searching his eyes, "If that's what you came here for."

Despite the tension that still rolls off of him, he smiles, a flash of white fangs in the darkness as he purrs, "Oh, I want you for _much_ more than dinner, Pamela."

She has to fight everything that his whispered words cause to well up inside of her, filing it all away to study later. When she's alone, and not so exposed to his hungry gaze, drinking in every reaction he elicits from her.

It takes her a moment to locate her lost voice under his heavy gaze, before she asks him the question that left her lips a few nights before, on his last unexpected visit. "Why are you here, Eric?" she whispers, studying his face, for the first time realizing just how unguarded his expression is.

He only pauses for a moment, before he answers her honestly. "I wanted to see you."

"Why?" she asks, shaking her head as much as she can, still trapped in his grasp. "You just saw me a few hours ago."

There's no hesitation in his voice when he breathes his answer, seeming just as confused as she is. "I do not know."

She reaches up slowly, wrapping her hand around his and prying it from her face. But once she's pulled it away, she doesn't let it go, staring down at his fingers that she just now realizes are streaked with dried blood. "I'm glad you did," she says suddenly, before her face screws up in confusion, unable to believe she let the words kicking around in her brain slip from her lips.

She glances up at him, hoping he somehow missed them, but his fangy grin is back as he steps closer to her once again. "Is that so?"

"No," she answers immediately, although a smirk erupts on her lips as she adds softly, "I'm a little drunk. Sometimes I say things…"

"That you really mean?" he purrs, before he moves so suddenly that she can hardly follow the movement, leaving her pressed up against the wall once again. Her eyes are wide as she stares up at him, watching as his eyes drop and linger on her lips. Her breath catches as she feels his fingers on her chin, tilting it up towards his face as he adds in a soft tone she hasn't heard from him before, "Drunk enough to let me kiss you?"

"Nowhere near that drunk," she whispers quietly, although her traitorous eyes drop to his own lips, unable to look away when he wets them as he slowly leans down, closer to her.

"Hmm," he murmurs, his fingers moving to trail along her jaw before they sink into the mess of her curls, tugging her head lightly back, finding her just pliable enough to allow it. "I might have to take my chances."

He studies her heavy-lidded eyes for what seems like an excruciatingly long moment, only the sound of her rapid breaths breaking the silence between them, before he lowers his lips slowly to hers, giving her every chance to stop him.

Much to _both _of their surprise, she doesn't.

Instead, she feels herself melting against him as his hand slides down her back, pulling their bodies closer together, excitement rushing through her at the sensation of the long line of his body pressed up against the soft curves of her own. Tentatively, her shaking hand rises, coming to rest on the cheek that's not streaked with blood, her eyes dropping to her fingers to watch as she feels the roughness of the stubble on his skin. Her eyes lower to his lips, her own parting as she allows herself for the briefest of moments to silently admit just how much she wants this, how much she wants _him_; just how mutual the attraction he has seemed to hold for her since the night they met truly is.

"Pam?" a hoarse voice calls from inside the second before their lips meet, and Pam gasps, her small hands dropping to push against his chest, not even realizing her eyes had fallen closed until they fly open once again.

She glances up at him, surprised by the look on his face, some unfathomable expression lining his features, his eyes nearly gone black as he stares down at her.

"_Pam_," Dean calls out again pitifully, drawing out her one-syllable name into about twenty syllables.

"Just…" she begins hoarsely, before she clears her throat, her eyes never leaving his as she raises her voice, hoping her brother is too drunk to realize she's outside. "Just a minute."

She swallows thickly, pulling her hands away from his chest once she realizes they're still resting there, before she whispers to him, "You should go."

"Very well," he whispers, although he looks reluctant.

She hesitates for a moment, biting down on her lip, trying her best to calm the hammering of her heart, and to give her mind time to remind her not to pull his face down to hers, and to find out if his lips are as soft as they look. She searches for something to say, _anything _to say, to get him to quit looking at her the way he is.

"Good luck tomorrow," she finally settles on, her eyes flickering away shyly before returning to him once again.

He pauses, before he nods his head slowly, as if he's again managed to forget what tomorrow is. "You…you and your brother…should stay here tomorrow night. Where it's safe. There's no way for us to know what will happen."

She smiles softly. "That's not likely."

"Do not come to my bar," he responds, suddenly stern. "It might not be safe there."

"Who said I'm planning to come to your bar?" she asks, tilting her head to the side.

"I'll come to you," he answers matter-of-factly.

She shakes her head, preparing to argue, to swear up and down that she has no desire to see him again, even though her mind is at war with her body, and perhaps something else _besides_ her body, to beg him to stay…Dean and his whining be damned. But when she speaks, her voice is weak as she whispers, "Eric…"

"This," he interrupts her gruffly, gesturing between them as he takes a step away, "Is _not_ over."

She straightens her back, remembering herself, unable to believe what she was about to let happen. He's a vampire. She's a hunter. And after twenty-four years of learning to protect herself, she's sure she's never been so careless by almost letting her guard down; and not just physically. She shakes her head slowly as she tightens Dean's shirt around her protectively. "I think…I think it is."

She hears Dean groan from inside their motel room, and the sound of glass breaking as he climbs to his feet, knocking something off the coffee table. He curses, and she can hear him shuffling towards the door, although even still she doesn't take her eyes off the man in front of her.

He smiles softly as he shakes his head as well. "You're wrong, little one," he answers her finally as he takes another step back. "This is only the beginning. You will see."

She opens her mouth to argue, but turns away when the door to the hotel is thrown open. She watches as Dean pokes his head out, the creases on his face matching the pattern of the couch as he glances around.

"What are you doing outside?" he slurs at her, before he yawns. "It's almost sunrise."

"I…" she begins, turning her head back to where Eric stands, prepared to make some sort of excuse.

But much to her surprise, and despite herself, to her disappointment, he's gone without a trace.

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><p><strong>AN: **I hope the fluffiness of this story is successfully lulling you into a false sense of comfort so far :D Y'all know that's not how I roll. Anyway, t**hanks for the reviews, hope you enjoyed. Until next time, friends :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my darling mariem13, who has a birthday this week :) Thanks for your support and friendship, bb! Hope you enjoy.**

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><p>Eric leans back in his seat, his eyes narrowed as they sweep around his club and the crowd that seems to be growing by the hour. The music is thumping loudly, irritating his sensitive ears, adding to the annoyance that's already simmering within him.<p>

He sends another human skittering away from him with one scathing look, one of what must have been a hundred since they realized what he truly is. He had been so caught up in the potential negative fallout of the vampires coming out that he didn't take the time to realize they might become the newest fetish. His eyes cast blandly over the crowd as they dry hump each other on the dance floor, realizing again that his clientele's gothic tendencies could possibly be a goldmine.

"I would say things went well," comes the raspy voice from the opposite side of the booth he sits in.

Eric smirks, one finger tracing the line of the bottle of synthetic blood, their key to 'coming out', that sits on the table in front of him, his narrowed eyes never moving away from the patrons. "I would tentatively agree," he answers. He shifts his weight in his seat, pulling out his cell phone, scrolling down through the texts that still roll in from the sheriffs of surrounding areas, signaling all is well in their neck of the woods. Satisfied, he slides his phone back into his pocket as he speaks, "So, what's next, then? Will the angels be making themselves known to humans?"

He glances over to see Castiel regarding him curiously. "Humans are already aware angels exist, Eric," he says after a long moment, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully. "It has always been more of a matter of rather or not they believe."

Eric blinks at him. "I meant…" he shakes his head, before he finishes, "Never mind." He can't help but smile inwardly since, although one of his oldest acquaintances has a new face, he's still exactly the same; slightly dense as he ever was.

He takes a sip of the bottled blood, doing his best to hide his grimace at the grim metallic taste. He gestures to the bottle, before asking his companion again, "Are you sure you wouldn't like a drink?"

"No," Cas replies, a small smile on his lips as his blue eyes scan the crowd.

Eric nods, waving away the waitress that had been heading their way. Briefly, he watches Castiel as he studies the humans, a thoughtful frown settled on his lips. He hadn't been surprised when the angel showed up unannounced, sitting silently by as the night unfolded. He had always, as long as Eric had known him, been fascinated by humans, and no doubt knew that this would be the place to be if he wanted to watch history unfold in front of his eyes.

"You don't tire of them?" Eric asks him, following his gaze to where the humans dance happily enough, as if the world as they know it hasn't changed irrevocably that evening.

"Humans?" Castiel asks, shaking his head when Eric nods in the affirmative. "My father said to love them as he does. And so, I do."

"Oh, come on," Eric responds, waving his hand out to indicate the writhing, sweating crowd. "You don't love them. They're disgusting."

Castiel merely tilts his head towards him, that serene smile still on his lips as their eyes meet. "Well, _this_ particular group is not exactly the best examples of the human race."

"Far from it," Eric agrees, "But they line my pockets quite nicely."

"I suppose so," Cas replies, his eyes stopping on a pair of women who are grinding themselves together on the dance floor, shaking his head before he continues, "Iniquity is profitable. It always has been."

"Indeed," Eric affirms, settling back in his seat, his eyes drifting to the bar as he watches Chow hand over the reins to a younger vampire, before flashing a fanged grin over his shoulder at him as he walks towards the back door, three human girls hanging off his arms, giggling excitedly at their brave walk on the wild side.

Definitely a success over all, then.

After a thousand years, he's become a shrewd businessman, and he can see the opportunity for a most profitable enterprise from a mile away. Or in this case, right under his nose. Of course the humans would pay dearly for a chance to be in the presence of vampires, allowing him to easily up his cover charge and drink prices if only to allow them to look, and the possibility that one might take an interest in them.

He's surprised he didn't think of it before. But then again, his mind has been elsewhere, occupied by the little blonde that recently blew into his life like a hurricane, turning his entire word upside down.

"I have never tired of watching them," Castiel continues suddenly, interrupting where his thoughts had gone for the millionth time since he rose, despite all that was going on around him. He turns his head, meeting the angel's eyes as he too glances over at him as he finishes, "But I will admit that some of them are more interesting than others."

Eric hums his agreement. "That they are," he whispers, almost to himself.

Truth be told, before a few nights ago, he would have scoffed at such a statement. That any human could be considered to be interesting, or anything else besides a way to ease his lust for blood, sex, or violence, would have been considered laughable. That any human could stand out amongst the rest of the unchanging, never-ending throng would have been unthinkable to him.

He had spent a thousand years on this earth, ten times the lifespan of even the luckiest of humans. He had felt love only once as a vampire, for his maker. He had made many acquaintances, allies, and more than a few enemies, and even a few people he would dare to call a friend, such as the celestial being currently in his company.

Plenty of humans had caught his eye, and many had become nothing more than a conquest. He had successfully wooed queens, princesses, and later supermodels and actresses, only to leave them surrounded by bloodstained sheets in what would become their deathbeds, walking away without feeling an ounce of remorse.

He had denied to himself at first that Pamela was any different from the rest. He had walked away the night he met her with the same goal in mind that he had countless times before. He wanted to bed her, to tame her, even if for just one night. Not unlike the women that just left with his bartender; seeking the edge of danger that is not often afforded to someone as lethal as himself.

But somehow, he knew even that first night that wasn't quite the case. He knew even then that she wasn't a creature that could be tamed. And more importantly, he realized he didn't _want_ to tame her.

She had become so quickly to him like a rare, wild, beautiful exotic creature; one that he yearned to catch just a glimpse of, and would allow himself to hope that she'd permit him to be in her presence before she disappeared again as quickly as she came.

He wasn't sure exactly when he realized something was different, nor is he sure what it means. All he _does_ know is, just like last night, with all that is going on, with everything that is calling his attention…all he can think about is seeing her again.

A most _irritating_ ailment.

He had done everything in his power to take his mind off of her the night before, to distract himself from the completely alien thoughts that kept bouncing around in his brain, but still he found himself standing outside the door to her dingy motel room, and raising his bloodstained hand to knock.

In the end, he was almost relieved that her irksome sibling had interrupted them, for he was sure, in retrospect, that he would have still been out there when the sun rose if he had not. All night tonight, all throughout the historic change for himself and his kind, his thoughts were almost exclusively on her. The way her body felt pressed up against his, the warmth of her bare skin beneath his hands when he found himself clutching at her waist, the smell of her surrounding him; her perfume, shampoo that smelled faintly of roses, and underneath it all the scent that was just distinctly _her_…

His eyebrows knit together as he could swear he senses the scent he's been longing to immerse himself in all night, his eyes rising to scan the club, for a moment sure that he's finally lost his ancient mind. But instead his eyes land on her face as she marches across the dance floor, although he's only able to hold her eyes for the briefest of moments before they fall on their own accord, roaming hungrily over her fitted black sweater, and the dark, tight jeans that hug her curves before they disappear into her tall black high-heeled boots.

The only visible reaction that he allows himself is to wet his lips as she comes closer, although after what almost happened the night before, he has no control over the _physical_ reaction that her presence elicits from him; one that leaves him shifting his weight uncomfortably in his seat. Her eyes are narrowed as she arrives at the end of the booth he shares with the angel, throwing one hand on her jutted-out hip as she regards him silently for a moment.

"Pamela," he exhales in greeting when the silence wears on for too long for his liking.

"Eric," she answers, arching one blonde brow high over her piercing blue eyes.

"I thought I told you not to come here tonight," he says sternly as he settles back into the booth, regarding her curiously. "I _told_ you it might not be safe."

She merely mirrors his expression. "You don't know me very well," she answers. "Telling me _not _to do things typically results in me doing said thing."

"So I see," he replies with a smirk, amused by this fact.

"And _you _failed to mention a few things about tonight," she declares, crossing her arms over her chest in an action he's sure is supposed to show her displeasure at his omissions, but instead only serves to place one of his new objects of desire more on display.

"Did I?" he asks non-committedly, feigning ignorance.

"Yeah, you did," she answers with a scowl. "You could have warned me."

"And what might you have required notice about, Miss Winchester?" he questions her, enjoying toying with her far too much.

"Oh, I don't know," she replies sarcastically, "That I'm in cahoots with the public fucking face of the vampires in the Southeast, perhaps?"

He merely smiles. "You give me too much credit, my dear," he answers, waving away her ever-deepening scowl. "Louisiana, perhaps, but definitely not the _entire_ Southeast."

"_Eric_," she practically moans, her exasperation beginning to show, "You were on _television_."

"You watched?" he asks her with a leer, preening ever so slightly. "How did I look?"

"Like an obnoxious asshole," she retorts, before adding graciously, "And the camera really _does _add ten pounds, in case you were wondering."

He chuckles, completely unfazed. "I have heard that cameras make things look bigger," he replies, licking his lips as he leans towards her, his eyes dancing in amusement as he rests his elbows on the polished wood of the table. "If that's true, and I had known _you _were watching, I would have whipped out my—"

"Where is Dean?" Castiel suddenly chooses to ask, and both Eric and Pam's heads swivel to the side to stare at him, both of them having forgotten he was even there.

"Nice to see you too, Cas," Pam quips, rolling her eyes. "Dean is in bed, in the dark, whining like the overgrown child he is about the…" Her voice lowers, adopting a gruff impression of her brother, "…worst hangover_ ever_."

"Hangover?" Castiel questions, tilting his head to the side as if he's never heard the term; although, to his credit, perhaps he has not. Eric, for one, recalls the feeling even a thousand years later, although he decides smugly that's exactly what the human deserves for interrupting them the night before when he was _so close_.

"He drank too much," Pam supplies, rolling her blue eyes yet again at Castiel's ever-present ignorance of all things human. "Maybe you should pay him a visit? Do the…you know…" She pauses long enough to touch two fingers to her forehead, "…Healing thingy. But be really, exceptionally loud first, okay?"

"Loud?" Castiel asks curiously.

"Loud," she reiterates. "Noisy. _Deafening. _Bang some pots and pans together. Show up with a drumset. Ooh!" she exclaims, practically clapping her hands together in evil delight, "Go to China and get a gong."

Castiel seems to consider this for a moment before he nods his head slowly. "Very well," he answers, and then suddenly he's just gone, as if he was never there.

Pam blinks as she glances around, never quite understanding how surrounding people just don't seem to notice a man disappearing into thin air right in front of them. Eric watches her as her eyes slowly return to him, and he can see the realization cross her lovely face the second she seems to recognize that they are alone…or as alone as they can be in a club crawling with people.

"Do…do you think he just went to China?" she asks quietly, before she bites her lip, avoiding his eyes studiously.

He can't stop his gaze from falling to her plump lower lip, held between her front teeth as he murmurs distractedly, confused by the ache the coquettish action produces in him. "Perhaps."

She's silent for a moment, biting down before she releases her glossy lip, much to his displeasure. "I should go," she whispers, glancing at him before looking away shyly as she finishes weakly, "I should…check on Dean."

Eric shakes his head as he scoots to the end of the booth, before rising fluidly to his feet. "Nonsense," he purrs, stepping in close, relishing in the sound of her heartbeat picking up. "Your brother doesn't need you to check in on him."

Her eyes narrow as she looks up at him, pushing against his chest with her finger. "That's not for _you_ to decide."

His eyebrows raise in surprise as he glances down to where her finger still pokes his chest, before glancing back up to her face, smirking as he whispers, "Of course it's not. But I'm allowed to point out you sent his angel after him. With a gong, no less."

"_His_ angel?" she asks, suddenly smiling again. "So I'm not the only one that notices?"

"Please," he answers with a roll of his eyes. "Do you think I'm blind?"

"No," she replies, tilting her head to the side as she adds, "You stare entirely too much for a blind man."

He smirks, taking that as permission to leer openly at her as he whispers, "I enjoy looking at beautiful things."

She snorts. "Laying it on thick tonight, I see."

"Is it working?" he asks hopefully.

"Nope," she answers, popping her lips with the _P_ as she turns away. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

"I don't," he interrupts as he catches her arm, twirling her back to face him, adding when she raises an eyebrow in defiance, "Excuse you, that is. Not yet."

She regards him warily for a moment, her thoughts flickering across her face so rapidly he can't keep up, before she whispers, "Eric, I…"

"I have something to show you," he says suddenly, finding himself grasping for a reason to get her to stay. When she still looks skeptical, he adds quickly, practically choking on the word he's only uttered a few times in his long life, "_Please_."

She eyes him for so long he's sure she is going to refuse, but then she speaks, catching him totally off guard with her answer. "Is it your dick?"

He barks out a loud, hearty laugh; well aware that nearly every one of his staff has stopped what they are doing to stare, surely having never heard their employer truly laugh before. He's still grinning in his surprise, enjoying watching the blush rising in her cheeks as he asks her optimistically, "Would you like it to be?"

"No," she answers all too quickly, her cheeks burning bright red now. "Not on television, or in living color, thank you."

He smirks, moving his hand from where it still grips her elbow, letting his fingers trail down her arm to twine his fingers with hers. "Another night, then," he replies decidedly.

Her eyes lower to their hands as his do, shocked at his own boldness, and even more surprised that she's allowing it. He turns their hands over, admiring how tiny her warm hand is in his, until she breaks his concentration when she speaks. "I doubt that."

"We shall see," he retorts, his confidence in that fact obvious in his voice. "Need I remind you that it was _you_ that brought _it_ up?"

For a moment she looks as if she's going to argue, but in the end she merely sighs in defeat. "You've got five minutes."

"Five minutes," he repeats, grinning lasciviously down at her, "I can work with that."

She rolls her eyes as he turns on his heel, pulling her away from the booth, but she digs her heels in, tugging on his hand as she squeaks, "What are you taking me?"

"To my office," he answers with a tone that implies 'duh'.

"Oh no," she retorts, tugging harder on the hand that he still refuses to let go of, "I didn't agree to that."

He turns to face her, taking a step forward, leaving him very much inside her personal space. He leans down to peer in her eyes as he whispers, "What are you afraid of, Pamela?" She raises her chin defiantly, in a silent reminder that she _knows_ she has nothing to be afraid of. He smiles at her show of bravery, as if he can't hear her heart hammering away in her chest like that of a little trapped bird, giving her away, and he decides it would be more than worth it to push his luck, bending further down to whisper in her ear, "Are you afraid I'm going to try to fuck you?" He grins as he hears her sharp intake of breath, and sure enough, her pulse quickening; and that coupled with the subject matter at hand, causes his fangs to ache in his gums. "_When_ I fuck you, liten krigare," he murmurs, pointedly taking the _if_ out of the equation, "Believe me when I say I'll need more than five minutes."

Her cheeks have turned an impossibly deeper shade of red as he pulls away, seemingly at a loss for words as it takes her a moment to collect herself before she whispers, "Five minutes. And not a second more."

"Fantastic," he replies with a triumphant smile, finally releasing her hand only to place his fingers at the small of her back, her warmth radiating out from beneath her sweater as he guides her across the dance floor. It doesn't escape his notice how many women and men alike glare at her in obvious jealousy, no doubt having hung around hoping he would chose somebody to disappear with as a few of the other now-known vampires did, but he smirks to himself as she holds her head high, even shooting a scathing glare or two of her own.

He presses his palm against her to keep her walking when he sure she's considering stopping to brandish the weapons he's positive she has stashed away somewhere on her person, guiding her through the crowd to the door marked _employees only_.

Once they make their way down the hallway, he reaches around her to push open the door of his office, gesturing her inside. She glances up at him again, unsure, before she finally complies, slipping through the door and moving to stand beside it as he follows her in, shutting the door behind her.

He walks towards his desk, and easily able to tell she hasn't moved by pinpointing the source of her anxious heartbeat, he speaks without turning around. "Aren't you going to have a seat, Pamela?"

"No," she answers immediately, and he turns once he reaches his desk, glancing up at her as he opens the top drawer to see her standing with her arms crossed defensively over her chest as she adds softly, "I'll only be here for five minutes."

"Suit yourself," he replies, his eyes dropping as he pulls out the manila folder that lays on top of everything else in the drawer.

"I _will_," she retorts sassily, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as he slams the drawer shut, before slowly ambling towards her. He hesitates for a moment when he reaches her, his eyes studying her face; trying to discern why exactly it is that he felt the need to lure her back to his office only to buy himself a little more time in her presence by revealing something he hadn't yet planned to show her.

He certainly can't seem to remember why when her impossibly large eyes rise to meet his, wide and luminous even in the semidarkness of his office, as every single thought in his head goes by the wayside. She pulls her lip between her teeth again, nibbling on it nervously, a habit he's realized she has when she feels cornered by him.

If he was more of a gentleman he would back off, give her space; but although he's been called _many_ things in his lifetime, a gentleman was never one of them. Instead he takes another step forward until her scent invades his senses, his eyes focused on her full lips, once again unable to deny to his overpowering need to kiss her. A hard, commanding, claiming kiss; or slow and soft, he doesn't care which. Whatever he has to do to feel those pillow-soft lips against his, to taste her, and see if she is truly as sweet as he's sure she has to be.

She had hardly reacted the night before when he asked her if he could, not able to fathom what it meant for him. Not only to ask permission, something he was most unaccustomed to doing; but also because she had no way of knowing that he hadn't kissed someone because he _wanted_ to since perhaps his maker, and before that, since his human life. He had done what he had to do over the years during the hunt in order to obtain his prize, but never before had he actually wanted, needed, _ached _to feel the touch of another's lips against his.

None of the countless women he had brought to this very room had he ever kissed, something he deemed much more intimate than feeding and fucking. As clueless as he knows he is on such things, even _he_ knows that there are different kinds of needs, although some have suddenly become just as necessary to survive as others.

He's sure she has no idea. No clue what she's done to him, simply by being herself. From the force to be reckoned with he first met in the woods, to the young girl with messy hair and weird pajamas with that laugh that made him feel a most peculiar feeling, once he was able to peel back that shell ever so slightly, hardened as she is by her life.

He wonders who else has had the pleasure of feeling those lips against theirs. He wonders if he could find them all, and tear them apart for daring to touch what is…

"You're down to three minutes," she says suddenly, causing his gaze to snap up from her lips to meet her own as the sound of her voice breaks him from his startling thoughts, and her eyes widen at the storm suddenly brewing in his darkened eyes.

His gaze drops to her throat as she swallows thickly, before her hand shakily reaches out, her fingers closing around the envelope. "What's this?" she asks softly.

"Open it," he murmurs.

She holds his eyes for a moment longer before she looks down at the packet, and he watches as her slender fingers lift the flap, before reaching inside. She pulls out the folded piece of paper within, her blue eyes flickering quickly over the neatly typed writing, and the sweeping, slanted signature at the bottom.

He waits until her eyes return to his, looking up at him questioningly, before he speaks. "Well?"

"You're changing the name?" she asks, biting that infuriating lip once again.

"I thought I would," he answers with a small smile.

"To Fangtasia?" she continues even more softly.

"Yes," he replies simply.

She looks away for a moment, before glancing back up at him. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" she questions him quietly.

"I think so," he answers with a small nod of his head. "People will want to see us. Be near us. Might as well buy into the oncoming trend."

"But aren't you…" She trails off, shaking her head, pausing briefly until his eyes implore her to continue. "You just went on television and announced what you are. And now this?" She waves the paperwork in front of his face, before dropping her hand back to her side. "True Blood or not, you've all just become targets. And _you_," she finishes, "are going to be the biggest, most obvious target of all."

"And?" he asks softly as he takes a step forward, letting his hand trail down her arm until he reaches the papers wrinkling between her clutched fingers, prying them gently away.

"_And_?" she repeats incredulously, suddenly looking as if she's about to stomp her foot in anger, which only serves to heighten his amusement. "_And_, what if someone tries to kill you?"

He smirks as he leans forward, pressing his free hand against the wall just over her shoulder, craning his neck to stoop down from his towering height to peer into her face as he whispers, "Are you concerned with my welfare, Pamela?"

"No," she spits out immediately, her entire body stiffening as she presses herself back into the wall, an action that only causes her back to arch, setting her even more deliciously on display for his wandering eyes.

"I think you _are_," he purrs, letting the legal paperwork flutter to the floor, forgotten, as he lifts his hand, brushing the backs of his fingers down her rapidly warming cheeks. "A mere few days ago you were threatening to kill me yourself." He smiles, letting his fingers trail down her throat, feeling her pulse quickening underneath his touch. "Now you want me safe and sound?"

"Maybe I want to do the honors," she replies steadily, her eyes locked on his.

"You are lying," he whispers as his fingertips move back to her jaw, tilting her chin up as he questions her. "Do you know how I know this, Pamela?"

"How?" she breathes out, her lips parting as he steps in closer, his body barely brushing against hers and practically coming alive at her touch when she rests her small hands on his biceps, squeezing them enough to let him know she's only seconds from pushing him away.

He smirks as he lowers his head. "Your heartbeat," he murmurs, his hand moving to cup her neck, feeling her pulse hammering away under his palm as he uses his grip to pull her lips to his, crooning just before they touch, "It gives you away. Every time you're near me, every time I get this close…"

"Mr. Northman!" a winded voice calls from just outside the door.

"What?" he snaps, refusing this time to back away, instead only pressing his hips against her, her little gasp as a result soothing his spiking irritation.

"You…you might want to see this, sir," the voice he recognizes as one of the bouncers filters through again.

He wavers for only a moment, once again weighing the odds of just taking his chances and pressing his lips to hers. But, knowing that his staff is well trained enough to know not to come knocking on his office door except for in an emergency, coupled with the knowledge that there is absolutely no fucking way he would able to stop once he started, he sighs heavily, letting his thumb brush over her bottom lip as he steps away.

"I will wait until you realize, Pamela," he whispers, giving her his most serene smile even though he feels like his insides, his very blood, is at war; constantly on the verge of some realization himself since the moment he first laid eyes on her, one that seems just out of his reach.

"Realize what?" she asks breathlessly after a moment, still pressed up against the wall as if he hadn't moved away.

"That you have lied to yourself," he answers steadily, "since you met me." He offers her his hand, pleasantly surprised when she takes it after only the briefest hesitation. "As it happens, I have nothing but time."

She rolls her eyes, the action breaking whatever spell she was under. "Well, I'd say don't hold your breath, but…"

He grins down at her as he pulls her to his side, before reaching for the doorknob, throwing the door open. The bouncer glares for a moment when he sees her, and Eric clears his throat pointedly, his expression telling the man in no certain terms that he's on thin ice.

"Problems?" he asks him in a clipped tone.

"Yes, sir," he answers. "There's a crowd gathering outside."

Eric blinks, apparently still too distracted by her to connect the dots. "So let them in."

"They're not…" the man begins.

"Oh!" Pam pipes up, and both men turn to look at her. "I knew there was something I meant to tell you." She shuffles her feet, suddenly looking embarrassed. "I think there are protesters outside."

"Protesters?" Eric echoes, watching as she nods her head, her curls spilling over her shoulders with the movement. "And you just now thought to mention this?"

Her eyebrows furrow. "I was going to, I just…got distracted." He smiles at that, amused for a moment by the knowledge that at least he's not alone in his predicament, before she continues, her eyes moving to the bouncer as a smirk graces her lips. "What's the big deal, anyway? Can't handle a couple humans, big guy?"

Eric chuckles, having watched the entire scene between the two of them play out the night before from his booth. "Apparently he can't handle one little girl."

This pulls a glare from both of them; the bouncer at the reminder that he couldn't do his job, and Pamela no doubt irritated by being called a little girl. The man seems to decide to ignore her presence completely, instead addressing his employer as he speaks. "There's a lot more than a 'couple', sir."

"Oh?" Eric asks, aloof once again now that they're not alone.

"Yeah," the bouncer responds. "You should probably come take a look."

Eric nods, his hand tightening around Pam's. "Very well. Come, Pamela. I believe our five minutes are regrettably up."

She snorts, but doesn't pry her hand from his as she follows him from the room. "And then some."

He makes his way out into the club, which has emptied out for the most part; the humans no doubt leaving now that most of the vampires in his employment have left with their choice of dinner for the evening, and he makes a mental note to force more of his area vampires into his employment for that reason.

They cut across the dance floor, moving past the bouncer that occupies the station by the door and out into the brisk night, Pamela trailing along after him, clutching her purse closer to her, an action that makes him realize she once again didn't come unarmed to see him.

The fact that had rubbed him wrong in a most irritating way a few nights before only sets his mind at ease now as they step out into the parking lot, coming face to face with what he assumes to be his lynch mob.

"There he is!" one of the gathered humans shouts in the annoying drawl native to the area, "That's that vampire from the TV!"

A round of jeers echoes through the crowd of about thirty bloodbags, by his count, and Eric's eyes survey them with indifference as he replies, "In the flesh."

"Get out of our town, dead man!" another human yells.

Eric rolls his eyes. "I've been in _your town _for longer than most of you have been alive," he replies levelly, before his voice adopts his best southern gentile tone, "Won't y'all come in for a drink? On the house, of course."

He grins as Pamela snickers beside him, although the smile fades when yet another hyper-intelligent lifeform pipes up. "Fuck you, fanger!" he yells, and Eric stiffens as the man's gaze falls to the woman beside him. "And fuck your…your fangbanger girlfriend!" The crowd cheers as if the term is the wittiest thing they've ever heard, and as a few of them step closer, Eric sees the guns some of them are carrying.

He pushes her roughly behind his back, his hand clasping tightly around her wrist as she grunts indignantly, his fangs snapping down as he growls at them, "You all might want to consider going back to your respective hovels before you do something you'll regret."

"You're…you're abominations! All of you!" the closest human shouts, undeterred by his thinly veiled threat.

"Says the guy who looks like his mother and father were first cousins," Pam grinds out as she peeks from behind him.

The man hisses through his missing teeth, "You ain't nothin' but a vampire's whore!"

The moment the human levels his shotgun in her general direction, Eric's patience, already wearing dangerously thin, finally snaps. He lunges forward with a snarl, intent on causing the bloodbath he's denied himself for far too long, but somehow her hissed whisper cuts through his rage as she whispers, "Eric,_ don't._"

He turns his head to look down at her, his chest heaving in anger, and she shakes her head as she murmurs only low enough for him to hear. "You _can't_. Not tonight, not here." When this doesn't seem to change his intent, she adds even more quietly with a pointed look, "You're the vampire from the TV, remember?_"_

He stares down at her for a long moment, trying to quell his rage, before he forces his fangs back up into his gums. He turns his eyes towards the bouncer behind him, speaking loudly enough for the humans to hear clearly, his voice still gruff with anger, "Would you be so kind as to alert the police that we have trespassers on our premises, after business hours?" He waits until the man nods, turning and disappearing inside.

"Chow," he speaks suddenly, his voice barely more than a whisper, and Pam's nose wrinkles in confusion until suddenly the vampire in question is there, as if he somehow managed to still hear him from wherever he was.

"Yes?" Chow asks, his narrowed eyes sweeping over the gathered crowd, crossing his heavily-tattooed arms in front of him.

"Mind the bar until the police get here," he orders, turning around to wrap his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "I'm taking Pamela home."

"I _know_ how to get home," she answers with irritation, although under the circumstances, she appears to think better of it than to try to pull away.

"Will you shut up, for once," he growls, before he pulls her away, marching her towards where her brother's car sits in the back of the parking lot, the black paint gleaming even in the moonlight.

"Keys," he barks out, in a tone he assumes would broker no argument.

"Fuck _that_," she answers, clutching her purse tighter. "You're not driving Dean's car."

"Pamela," he starts, his voice dripping with impatience, although he keeps his tone quiet enough that the humans, whose attention has turned to Chow now, can't hear. "Do you want them, the humans that just threatened to kill you, to think that this is _your_ vehicle, or mine?"

"I don't care," she argues, undoing the clasp on her bag to produce the keys. "Whatever they want to do to me, simply for being around _you_ I feel I should mention, is _nothing_ in comparison to what Dean will do to me if I let someone drive his car. _I'm_ not even supposed to be driving it. He was just too hungover to argue."

She walks around to the driver's side, and they glare at each other for a moment before she hisses, "Are you coming or not?"

His eyes narrow, but in the end he walks to the passenger side, opening the heavy door before folding his tall frame into the seat. She climbs in beside him, starting the engine, and he smirks as she roars past the throng of idiots on her way out of the parking lot, causing more than a few of them to choose to scurry out of her way rather than get run over.

The drive to the motel room she shares with her brother is short, but while sitting in the passenger seat, watching the headlights of passing cars cast shadows over her face out of the corner of his eye, it's long enough for his mood to deteriorate. When the car pulls to a stop outside their room, he's already out, stalking around to open the door for her as if someone might leap out of the shadows and take her away from him.

"What's up with you?" she asks as he grips her elbow, pulling her out of the car.

"Nothing," he answers tersely, barely giving her the chance to shut and lock the door to the Impala before he's tugging her up towards the door to her room.

"Do you think _I'm_ blind?" she asks, repeating his earlier question back to him as she pulls her arm from his grasp, turning to face him when they reach the tiny porch.

He hisses in irritation. "Go inside, Pamela."

"Fuck you," she snarls back, "And stop being a dick."

His fangs make another appearance as he is suddenly crowding her space, a growl rumbling through his chest as he speaks. "You were right."

She lifts her chin, unfazed by his anger. "I usually am. You'll have to be more specific."

Her response only causes his eyes to narrow dangerously, leaving only glints of blue that seem to simmer in the darkness. "You are in danger, because of _me_."

She rolls her eyes, shaking her head as if he's the biggest idiot she's ever met. "Newsflash, old man…I'm _always_ in danger."

"But now they have their sights on you," he speaks gruffly, "You shouldn't—"

"_Stop_ telling me what to do," she interrupts, her own eyes narrowing in anger. "And don't you _dare_ tell me I shouldn't be around you. Yet another decision you're not allowed to make for me."

"But—"he tries to argue, only to be cut off once again.

"But nothing," she spits out. "I've spent my whole life taking care of myself. Making my own decisions, rather they're right or wrong. And most importantly, killing monsters."

She eyes him, waiting on him to argue, but he stays silent, his eyes studying her face. "I am _not_ afraid of humans," she finishes.

"Humans don't usually want to do you harm," he answers softly.

"You don't know humans as well as you think you do, then," she replies.

He's quiet for another long moment, his eyes piercing hers, before he speaks again, his voice oddly hoarse. "I want you _safe_."

"I'm not," she answers him, taking a step closer to him. "I'm not, I never have been, and I never will be. It's not part of the job description. It's not a part of my _life_, Eric."

"You _deserve_ to be safe," he speaks firmly, before he repeats himself, as if saying it will make it suddenly become true. "I _want_ you safe."

Her eyes flicker over his face, studying his expression, before she asks him softly, "Why does it matter?"

"I don't know," he answers honestly, running his hand down his face in agitation, his voice conveying his frustration with that very question. "I don't like knowing…if something happens to you because I—"

"Eric," she begins, her eyes holding something he's not quite sure he's ever seen before; her expression suddenly surprisingly unguarded, "_I _came to see _you_ tonight, not the other way around. Or have you forgotten?"

He blinks as she smiles softly, before she catches him completely off guard as she steps forward, raising up on her tiptoes to press her lips against his cheek, her lips petal-soft against his skin, roughened by his eternal stubble.

His eyes are wide as she lingers there for a moment, before she pulls away, suddenly shy as she whispers, "Goodnight, Eric."

He can't seem to force himself to speak, only watches as she opens the door to the room and slips inside without another word or backwards glance.

He realizes he's been standing there for what must be a full five minutes, staring shell-shocked at the closed door, before he finally forces himself to turn away. He stops a few paces out into the parking lot, glancing through the open window, watching as she somehow manages to wedge herself between Dean and Castiel on the small couch, her head falling back as a silent laugh escapes her lips at the sight of her brother's annoyed expression at her intrusion.

He finds himself smiling softly at her glee, and it's only the knowledge that he's leaving her in the more than capable hands of a fellow hunter and an angel that allows him to step away, rather than stand there until sunrise, making sure nobody followed her home.

He lingers for another moment, watching the light of the television flicker on her face as she yawns, covering her mouth with her slender fingers before she rests her cheek against her brother's shoulder. He finally shakes himself, backing away slowly, and although he knows she can't hear him he whispers just before he takes off into the night sky.

"Godnatt, min Pamela."

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><p><strong>AN: Awee, I liked writing this chapter. I hope y'all liked it too.**

**FYI, I'll be moving within the next week, so I might be a little slow getting the next chapter out, but since my priorities are woefully not in order, who knows? Anyway, I'll update ASAP.**

**Reviews are adored and make me all fluttery feeling and leave me wanting to do nothing but write, so thank you for all your support. Until next time, friends :)**

**Translations:**

**liten krigare – little warrior**

**Godnatt, min Pamela – Goodnight, my Pamela.**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Hello, and sorry for the delay. I'm all moved and settled and I have for you a 11k word chapter to thank you all for your patience. Uh…enjoy, I guess?**

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><p>"This is damn good pie," Dean says, talking with a mouthful of the dessert in question. "You should have gotten some pie, Pammy."<p>

Pam scowls as she pushes the last remaining cherry tomato in her mostly empty salad bowl around with her fork. "I told the waitress, and you by default since you're sitting two feet away from me, that I didn't want any pie."

He smacks his lips, licking some remaining apple flavored goop from his fork. "_Damn_ good pie. You want some pie, Cas?"

"My vessel does not require nutritional sustenance," Castiel replies in his gruff monotone from his place beside Dean in the booth the three of them are sharing, hidden in the back of the slightly dingy diner on the outskirts of Shreveport.

Dean rolls his eyes, before shoving another forkload of the deep-dish apple pie in his mouth, barely chewing before he speaks again. "My vessel doesn't _require_ pie, Cas, but it sure likes it. You should have gotten some pie, man, I'm tellin' you."

Pam slams her fork down so loudly that the people at the table beside them turn to look with startled eyes, although she doesn't pay them any attention. "Nobody wants any fucking pie, Dean," she bellows, before she finally glances around, and seeing all the attention she's gathered she deflates a little, sinking back into the booth as she adds more quietly, "And stop talking with your mouth full, you're revolting."

Both men stare across the table at her, wide-eyed at her sudden outburst. Dean turns to share a glance with Cas, before they both look back at her, the angel scrutinizing her curiously, tilting his head to the side like an inquisitive puppy.

"Something seems to be troubling you, Pam," he says slowly.

"She woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning," Dean answers, blatantly mouthing the word _bitch_ as he shrugs before digging in for another oversized bite.

This causes Castiel's eyes to flicker to Dean's, looking at him as if he's said something outlandish. Suddenly, his expression becomes troubled, squinting his eyes at him as he asks, "How does one determine which is the _right_ side of the bed to wake up on?"

"It's an expression, Cas," she huffs.

"So there is no theoretical right or wrong side of the bed," he states, seeming to file away this information to revisit later.

"No," she snaps. "What difference does it make to you? You don't even sleep."

"My vessel—"

"Doesn't require sleep, we know," she finishes for him, rolling her eyes. He had proved that the night before, since he was in their motel room when she finally climbed into bed, and was still perched on the couch watching reruns of Rawhide when she awoke that morning to a slew of questions about cowboys.

"For real, though," Dean says, not heeding her warning about talking with his mouth full, unaware of just how close she is to stabbing him in the eyeball with her fork, "What's your deal?"

She frowns as she looks down at the table, twirling one blonde curl around her finger. She _had_ been in rare form since she woke up that morning, although she herself couldn't quite put her finger on why.

_You miss him_, her mind whispers to her, and her scowl only deepens in response as she attempts to bury _that_ particular reoccurring thought six feet under.

The night before, in all the hours she and her brother spent wandering the woods searching for, and subsequently ending, the rogue vampires they ran across, she found herself expecting to see a _particular_ vampire step from the shadows. The one with the startling blue eyes who wears that infuriating fucking grin plastered on his face while he does his best to make her as uncomfortable as he possibly can in however long he is in her presence.

But he never did, which turned out to spell disaster for the vampires she _did_ come in contact with, since for every time she thought about him, she got pissed off, and the more pissed off she got the more vicious she became.

What was bothering her was not that she wanted to see him. That, she could possibly deal with. Vampire or not, she had to admit he was fun to be around, and it certainly doesn't hurt that he is prettier than all of the male models in her latest issue of Vogue. _Looking_ doesn't hurt anything, she had all but convinced herself in the last twenty-four hours. _Looking_ is okay, and doesn't cross any lines that could affect her personally or professionally.

Instead, later on that night while she was standing over the disintegrating corpses of four vamps she had taken on at once, her chest heaving for breath and spattered from head to toe with blood, she had finally admitted to herself what the real problem was…once she realized she could have gotten herself killed in her attempt to simply to distract herself from her growing ire.

She was _worried_.

One of the few positive things about having hardly anyone left in the world but her brother, and to a certain extent the angel that is seemingly attached at his hip, is that it cuts down on her need to worry. As long as they were together, healthy and whole, had a place to rest their heads, food in their bellies, and a job to do, for the most part she and Dean could set their minds at ease.

She had grown used to, even long before their father died, the fact that only Dean truly cared about her safety. That was until the night before, where within two days she heard two _very _different men utter the exact same words to her.

_I want you safe._

And now, she finds herself curiously concerned with the safety of one of those two men, the one who isn't even a man at all. The news during the past two days had been full of the fallout from the vampires revealing themselves to the world; as predicted as a possible outcome, people were neither comfortable with nor happy about realizing that there is life after death for some, and the undead walk among them.

There had been many more protests like the one outside of Eric's club according to the reporters on the television screen from across the country, people wielding torches like it's the fifteenth century and carrying signs and guns until the police, who seemed oddly accepting of their newest citizens, came to disperse the crowds.

But as the hours wore on the night before without a word from him, she felt her anxiety rise. Which, in turn, heightened her irritation with herself for _expecting_ to hear from him. Irritation that spikes in her once more when she realizes that she's become lost in thought, yet again, looking up to find both men in her company regarding her interestedly.

"_Nothing_ is wrong with me," she finally answers. "Nothing at all."

"Sure," Dean retorts, rolling his green eyes. "That's—hey!"

He tries to bat away Pam's hand as she reaches out, stabbing at his pie with her fork. She manages to lift a large chunk of the dessert to her lips before he can stop her, cramming it in her mouth, and she closes her eyes as the sweet taste floods her senses, a satisfied smile curving her lips as she chews it slowly, savoring the flavor.

"I thought you didn't want any pie?" Dean practically growls.

"I don't," she replies once she swallows. "I just wanted a bite of yours."

He scowls, making quick work of gobbling down the rest of his piece before she can steal any more, not speaking until he's running the pad of his finger around the plate, collecting the crust crumbs before popping them into his mouth. "You could have asked first."

"You would have said no," she retorts, raising an eyebrow to dare him to argue as she pats at the corners of her mouth daintily with her napkin.

"I would have gotten you your _own_ piece of pie," he answers, "That was _my_ bite of pie. I _needed_ it."

"I told you," she replies, "I just wanted a taste."

"I hate you," he seethes.

She grins, and is just about to retort when she feels a soft buzz from her purse beside her. She nearly jumps when she realizes it's her phone, and she scrambles to dig it out, holding up the screen to her face.

Her lips fall into a frown as she realizes the caller isn't who she expected it to be, before her frown deepens into a scowl when she realizes she had _expectations_.

"It's the sheriff," she murmurs, doing her best to keep a touch of petulance out of her voice.

Dean snorts. "Which one?"

She narrows her eyes before she responds, "The _human_ one."

Swiping her finger across the screen to answer the call, she lifts it to her ear. "Agent, uh…" She trails off suddenly, her eyes widening as she looks up at her brother, unable to remember what her name is supposed to be for _this_ particular town, and uncharacteristically drawing a blank.

"Plant," Dean hisses.

She clears her throat to play it off, before she tries again. "Agent _Plant_."

"Well hello, darlin'," the voice on the other end drawls, and she rolls her eyes.

"Sheriff," she responds, trying to keep her tone civil.

"We got ourselves another one. Off Highway 1, down near Bossier."

She glances across the table at her brother as he finally lies down his fork. "How many?" she questions.

"Just one. Female, Caucasian…'bout twenty-four, twenty-five by my guesstimate."

She winces at the age, much too close to her own, before she replies, "Fine. We'll be there within the hour."

"Lookin' forward to it," he answers.

"Don't touch anything," she commands in her best FBI voice, and she can hear him begin to say something else, but she pulls the phone from her ear, hanging up on him.

She sighs as she places her phone down on the table, sorry for the loss of life, but thankful for the distraction. "Time to go, boys," she says to her brother, who nods, pulling out his wallet and tossing down two twenties to pay for their food and his precious pie. She smirks as he bumps Castiel's shoulder with his own, and the angel seems so caught off guard by the physical contact it takes him a moment to realize that it's his signal to get up. He finally does, climbing to his feet, watching Dean closely as he pulls himself out of the booth.

Pam does the same, smoothing her rather frilly pink sundress down over her thighs before she picks up her purse, smiling up at her brother as she speaks.

"Let's go, Agent…Page?" She grins as he nods, muttering as she falls into step behind them, speaking out loud in hopes she won't forget it again. "Led Zeppelin. Shreveport is Led Zeppelin. Stairway to Heaven, my ass."

x x x

They had argued about it extensively, but in the end Dean had refused to drive back to the motel for them to change into something more professional, which was how she found herself stepping out into the tall grass of the field where they had been directed in her cheap flip-flops. Her bare legs prickle with goosebumps as the air hits her skin, the swampy heat of the day disappearing quickly now that the sun has begun to wane in the sky.

She shoots a glare over the roof of the Impala at her brother as he moves aside enough for Cas to climb out of the back, pulling down the short hem of her dress, hoping to somehow make it longer. "The sheriff is a perv, Dean. He's going to have a fucking field day." She scowls when he merely shrugs, and she takes her chance to give him the finger despite the man in question approaching as she hisses, "Some big brother you are."

"Sheriff," Dean greets the tubby man as he reaches them loud enough to drown her out, ignoring her complaints completely. "Afternoon."

"Agent," the officer answers with a nod in his direction, before his eyes shift to Pam as she rounds the hood of the car, her scowl only deepening as the man gives her a pointed once-over. She comes to stand beside Cas, glancing over at him, wondering if she could beg him to give her his coat, although she's honestly unsure if the ever-present garment is even detachable.

"Night off?" he asks, still staring at her legs.

Dean clears his throat, but it doesn't do anything to pull the man's creepy gaze away. "We were just getting a bite to eat."

"A date?" the cop asks with too much interest, pulling a sharp "_No!"_ out of both Pam and her brother simultaneously.

Her eyes are glacial as she meets the man's eyes once they finally return to her face, and she can almost_ see _the rusty cogs in his brain turning as he assumes her answer is proof that she's available. "Where's the vic?" she asks, not wasting any more time with false pleasantries, afraid if the man makes another pass at her she might be forced to cut his disgusting tongue out with the knife strapped to her thigh, hidden beneath her innocuous sundress.

The sheriff holds up his hand. "Just a second, missy," he responds, ignoring her and her narrowed eyes at being dismissed, instead turning his attention to the angel. "Who's this guy?"

Dean clears his throat in what Pam is sure is supposed to be a signal for Cas to flash the identification he made for him some time back just as they had taught him, but instead he continues to stand stock-still, his arms hanging at his side, until her brother ultimately speaks for him. "This is Agent Jones. He just got into town."

Pam reaches over, poking Cas in his ribs, which seems to prod him into action. He whips out the ID Dean had shoved into his coat pocket moments before, brandishing it in the sheriff's direction. Dean rolls his eyes, reaching out with one hand to turn the fake ID right side up from where the angel had, once again, left it hanging unprofessionally upside down. The cop reaches up, stroking his hideous mustache with his thumb and forefinger, looking as if he's about to argue Castiel's credentials.

"_Where_," Pam hisses before he's able to say a word, reiterating her question, "is the victim."

"About that," he says, giving her what she's sure is supposed to be an apologetic smile, full of coffee-stained teeth. "She's already been hauled off to the morgue."

"I _told_ you not to touch her," she answers sternly.

"And I _tried_ to tell you she was already gone," he answers, shifting his weight and resting his hand on his service revolver in its holster, "But I was speaking to a dial tone."

"Fucking locals," she mutters, before pushing past him. "Where's the scene, if you and your idiotic brethren haven't _completely_ ruined any chance at gathering evidence with fallen sprinkles from your donuts?"

The sheriff gives her a harsh glare, looking toward Dean and Castiel as if they'll make an apology for her boorishness, but Dean merely smiles. Ultimately, he gives up, gesturing towards the woods. "After you."

She shoots her brother a scathing glare before she sets off walking, all three men falling into step behind her, able to feel one set of beady eyes burning into the backs of her naked legs as she picks her way through the tall grass. As they near the woodline, Dean finally pulls ahead, producing a flashlight from one of the many pockets of his cargo jacket, necessary now that dusk has settled around them.

She follows her brother into the trees, with Castiel and the sheriff close behind, frowning down at the leaves already stirred up by several pairs of police-issued boots; the footprints mashed into the moist undergrowth taking with them any hope that she could pick out any sort of clue.

She has no doubt who the culprit is, although she'll have to see the body to be completely sure. Still, she speaks softly to Dean as she walks, keeping her voice low enough that the out of shape sheriff huffing and puffing several yards behind them can't overhear.

"We're a good five miles from the original site," she whispers.

"If it's them, they're spreading out," he responds, shaking his head. "It doesn't seem like we've even made a dent."

She nods as she steps over a fallen log, mentally tallying what must be more than twenty-five dead vampires by now. "Could be the wolves, too," she sighs, not even wanting to think about how many of _them_ there might be, shaking her head. "I need to see that body."

"Well," he replies, ducking under a low-hanging branch. "For now, all we've got is a scene."

She finally lifts her eyes from the ground before her just in time to see a clearing appear up ahead, and the flurry of activity it contains. The sparse CSI team is on hand, taking pictures as they tromp around on the evidence all while being completely oblivious to the newcomers on the scene; and a few officers mill about, apparently trying to look busy although there's nothing left for them to do.

Even though the body no doubt wasn't exactly fresh after such a warm day, a metallic, tangy smell still lingers in the air that causes Pam's nose to wrinkle as she steps out into the clearing. Her eyes survey the scene, as she's sure her brother's do the same, taking in every detail in a matter of seconds; from the blood smeared on a nearby tree trunk where the underbrush is disturbed, perhaps from where the victim gave chase, to the indention in the leaves from where the body was removed, with barely a drop of blood to be found.

She's opening her mouth to comment on what to her seems to be another sign of the usual suspects, when an all-too-familiar voice pipes up behind her.

"Good evening, everyone."

Pam can feel her heart leap up in her chest in relief at the sound of Eric's voice, and she spins to face him to find him standing on the edge of the clearing, surveying the scene. And although she had imagined his greeting was meant for her, she's surprised to see his attention is focused on the sheriff standing several feet away from her.

"Mr. Northman," the sheriff replies, and Pam's eyes widen when she hears the tenor of reverence in his tone. "What brings you here tonight?"

Eric smiles easily. "Word travels fast."

The formerly stern cop laughs as if he's just heard a hilarious joke, and Pam's eyes narrow. It's then that she realizes a pair of icy blue eyes are on her, and the sheriff clears his throat. "FBI is here," he says, jerking his thumb towards the trio by way of an introduction. "Meet agents Page, Jones, and Plant. This here is Mr. Northman."

Eric grins, ignoring Dean and Castiel as he steps forward until he looms above her, smiling down at her. "So nice to meet you, _Agent Plant_."

Her narrowed eyes gleam as she raises her chin to look up at him. "Likewise, _Mister_ Northman."

His hand rises to pluck at the strap of her pink sundress, his smile widening as he whispers, "Such professional attire. The FBI's standards have really fallen."

"The bureau is sorry to disappoint, sir," she answers sweetly without missing a beat.

His eyes darken as they linger on the scooped neckline of her dress, answering her in a decidedly _different_ tone of voice. "Oh, I'm definitely not disappointed," he whispers, and she shivers as she feels his cool fingertips against the exposed skin where her shoulder meets her throat for a moment before he lets them fall away. "_Overjoyed_, as a matter of fact."

She can practically hear Dean roll his eyes beside her, but her eyes are still on Eric's blinding smile, until his face abruptly falls into a grim expression, suddenly all business again.

"Where's the body?" he asks flatly.

"Morgue," Dean answers immediately.

"Excellent," Eric replies, his smile returning. He spins fluidly away from her, turning to face the sheriff, his voice dripping with charm when he addresses him. "Sheriff, could I have a word with you and your team?"

Pam vaguely notices that the man's face slackens ever so slightly, before he nods, his gruff voice ringing out around the clearing as he speaks without turning away. "Everybody, gather 'round."

Her head tilts to the side curiously, her brows furrowing as the forensics team and the few cops on the scene glance up at their boss, before they all slowly comply, making their way over to stand with the sheriff in front of the vampire.

She watches as Eric meets the eyes of each of the law enforcement grunts in attendance in turn as he speaks in a voice suddenly deeper and softer than usual, "Now, this girl you found tonight. She suffered terrible, gruesome wounds to her throat, did she not?"

As a unit, they all nod their heads, their expressions completely vacant. Pam's face, on the other hand, screws up in confusion as Eric continues in that strange, velvety tone, "It was an animal attack, correct?"

"Animals," the sheriff echoes.

"Very unfortunate," Eric replies.

"I'm so sad," whispers the thin brunette woman forlornly who was collecting evidence when they arrived.

"Now, you're going to pack up your _shit_," he hisses, his voice changing to something more commanding, "and go back to your offices."

"We should go back to the station," the sheriff repeats softly.

"Good," Eric answers, nodding his head, and the moment he looks away the group suddenly disperses, gathering the few things they had brought into the clearing to do their respective jobs.

"What the _fuck_ was that?" Pam demands in a whisper as she takes a step closer to him, forced to crane her neck back to meet his eyes, her flip flops leaving their height difference even more exaggerated.

"What was what?" he asks innocently, before mirroring her, moving a step closer, leaving them toe to toe. He hums in the back of his throat as he leans down, taking a deep breath. "You smell fucking _delicious_," he purrs, leaning even closer until their lips are barely an inch apart. "Like apples and sugar," he coos, his eyes becoming unfocused as if he's lost in the past, trying to remember the taste of something he can just barely recall. He takes another deep breath, before he murmurs softly, "So sweet."

Pam scowls, remembering her single bite of her brother's pie earlier in the evening. "Yeah," she retorts, forcing herself to sound unaffected, "Well, you smell like bullshit. As always." She can't help the beginnings of a smile that graces her features as he grins, seeming oddly proud, but she forces her lips back into a serious line as she glances around to see the forensics crew stuffing their things back into their bags. "What did you just do, Eric?"

"Glamoured them," he answers simply.

"So they don't remember what they saw?" Dean asks.

"Oh, they will remember," Cas helpfully supplies, "But they'll remember it as _he_ tells them to."

Pam's eyes narrow. "So _you're_ the reason all of the deaths have been attributed to animal attacks?"

Eric shrugs. "Just doing my job."

Dean makes an angry puff of a noise, rolling his eyes before he jabs his finger in Eric's direction. "You can't just go around zapping people's memories like fucking Men in Black, dude."

Eric merely smiles, albeit slightly condescendingly. "Obviously, I can, _dude_," he replies, turning his head just enough over his shoulder that their attention is called to the people exiting the clearing behind them, all of them nodding and muttering of 'animal attack' over and over like broken records. "And I _will_ continue to do what keeps me and my kind alive."

"While leaving the half the human population with holes in their brains?" her brother shoots back.

"And that would be different than usual…how?" Eric argues, before he raises his chin, looking down his nose at Dean. "The majority of your species becomes more belligerent and ignorant every generation. Perhaps I'm doing them a favor."

"Oh yeah?" Dean barks, "And I suppose you and your fucking cavemen were better off?"

Eric's growl rumbles through the clearing as he takes a step towards him. "I was a _Viking_," he replies with pride, practically puffing his chest out with his proclamation. "We were _incredibly_ advanced for our time."

Both men's head turn when they hear footfalls in the leaves, glancing away from their argument to see the back of Pam's blonde head as she heads out of the clearing.

"Where are you going?" they both ask simultaneously.

She spins to face them, one hand cocked up on her hip. "Unlike _some_ of you, I don't have time for a dick measuring contest. I've got shit to do, so…bye."

"There would be no contest," Eric answers her with a confident grin.

"I didn't mean…" Pam starts, before she shakes her head, wrinkling her nose. "He's my brother. _Gross_."

"Contest?" Cas asks suddenly, and all three of them stop momentarily to look at him, trying to decipher if he's just confused again, or interested.

In the end, Pam shakes her head, turning away once again, calling out once she moves back into the thick trees. "I'm going to the morgue. Later."

There's a _woosh_ of air around her, although it doesn't give her enough warning to stop in time before she walks nose-first into a hard wall covered in soft black cotton. She glances up, glaring into Eric's smiling face now that he's suddenly in front of her, arching an eyebrow as she awaits an explanation.

"You're going to the morgue, _I'm_ going to the morgue," he says quietly, one corner of his mouth turned up into that annoying smirk. "What a happy coincidence."

She can't help but smile in return, even as she pushes past him. "Or maybe you're just following me. Again."

"I do not know what you're talking about, Pamela," he replies as he falls into step behind her. She's just about to remind him that he's admitted to following her at least once, when her brother's voice cuts her off.

"I guess I'll just wait here," Dean calls from where he still stands with Castiel out in the middle of the clearing, and she turns her head to glance over her shoulder at him to see his arms crossed over his chest, pout firmly in place.

She stops, turning to look at him. "I'm sure you two can find some way to…entertain yourselves," she responds, grinning widely as Dean's scowl only deepens, before her eyes go wide in mock innocence. "What? I meant, you know…hunting."

"Fuck you, Pam," he growls in irritation.

"No, not me, silly," she explains jovially, before turning once again to head out further out into the forest, calling over her shoulder with a giggle, "_Castiel_."

She shrieks and takes off into a run when a rock suddenly sails by her head, crashing her way through the trees into the woods back towards the car. She makes it a safe distance away from her stone-hurling brother, only to get tripped up on her cheap flip flops when the toe gets caught under an exposed root. A yelp of distress escapes her as she feels herself pitch forward, her hands reaching out instinctually to break her fall.

Instead of finding herself up close and personal with the forest floor, she suddenly feels a pair of strong hands hook underneath her arms, hauling her upright and back to her feet once again. She whirls around to face Eric as he towers over her, a crooked grin blooming across his features.

She reaches for his wrists, pulling his hands away from where they now clutch her waist unnecessarily. "Thanks," she breathes, for lack of anything more intelligent to say.

"For someone so surprisingly graceful, that was pretty spastic," he replies, reaching for her again despite her small hands still clasped around his wrists.

"Rude," she responds, slapping his fingers away, "And don't touch me."

"Why not?" he purrs, following her as she turns away, strolling along easily behind her with his hands clasped behind his back as she struggles to hike through the woods in sandals.

"Because I don't like you," she answers him matter-of-factly, reaching back to tug down the back of her skirt when she's forced to bend over to duck under a low-hanging tree branch, rather than give him a view she's sure he'd enjoy.

It doesn't stop a growl that rumbles from behind her from reaching her ears as she straightens back up, and suddenly he's right behind her, his voice practically whispered in her ear, "Oh, Pamela. I think you do."

As she steps out of the woods and into the field once again, she turns to face him, her scowl heavy on her lips. "I do _not_."

He grins, striding towards her as she takes another step back. "Not even a little?"

"Nope," she answers with a little shake of her head, continuing to back away from him, walking in reverse as he stalks towards her.

He raises an eyebrow, obviously struggling to hide his amusement as he leans closer to whisper, "You're going to fall again."

"Kiss my ass," she retorts quickly as she raises her chin, trying to hide her startled jump when she backs into something.

He only uses her new predicament to his advantage, stepping well inside her personal space, trapping her there as he leans into her. He reaches for her, his hands first landing on her waist before one dares to move lower, over her hip and down to where the hem of her dress meets her thigh. He cranes his neck to look down at her, and she's still forced to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, which are glittering happily as he whispers, "May I?"

His fingertips barely brush the bare skin of her thigh, and she swallows as her eyes widen in surprise, suddenly unsure of what exactly he's asking. "May you what?"

"Kiss your ass, of course," he murmurs darkly, and she balks as he leans further down, obviously smelling her hair, before he pulls back enough to meet her eyes. "For starters, anyway."

She can't help her grin, although she roughly jerks his hand away as his fingers attempt to make their way up under her skirt. "You're gross," she teases, before she pushes him away, knowing that he only moves because he chooses to. "I've got work to do."

"So do I," he replies as he steps back, his eyes dropping to roam over her slight frame, lingering on her tan, toned legs for a moment before returning to her face. "Shall we carpool?"

"I'm not tagging along if you're going to do your Superman impression again," she answers with a shake of her head, before turning to look at what she's leaned up against. She blinks as she takes in the cherry red Corvette, before peering back over her shoulder at Eric. "Is this yours?"

"Yes ma'am," he answers with a nod of his head.

She snorts. "How very understated of you."

"I told you, I appreciate beautiful things," he replies with a leer. When she rolls her eyes, he steps closer once again, dangling the keys in front of her face. "Would you like to drive?"

It only takes her a split second to answer, mostly because she knows Dean would have to change his panties if he was ever faced with such an opportunity. "Fuck yes, I would," she replies excitedly, making a grab for the keys.

He grins, swiping the keys out of her reach just as her fingers close around them. "Too bad," he retorts with a grin, instead reaching around her to open the passenger side door for her. He watches with unhindered interest as she drops into the bucket seat, tugging her dress down over her legs. "Maybe next time."

"It's cute how you always think there will be a next time," she shoots back, glaring at him as he shuts the door. She crosses her arms over her chest after she buckles her seatbelt, watching with entirely too much interest as he rounds the hood and somehow manages to fold his towering frame into the small cockpit.

They lapse into comfortable silence as he pulls out onto the deserted highway, besides her pointed glares when he somehow manages to brush her knee with his fingertips every time he shifts gears.

The drive to the Caddo Parish coroner's office is a short one, and as Eric pulls up the park brake, she reaches for the door handle. But before she can even pull it open, suddenly he's there doing it for her, chuckling as she shrieks in surprise. She allows it when he grips her hand, pulling her up and out of the low riding car, but she shoves against his chest as soon as she's standing toe to toe with him.

"Can't you walk like a normal person?" she gasps out.

"I am not a normal person," he replies easily, taking a step closer to her. She tilts her chin up to watch him as his expression suddenly turns thoughtful, his lips turning down in a studious frown as he whispers, "And neither are you."

"Yes," she agrees, her mouth falling into a thin line, "As I've been told nearly my whole life."

He tilts his head to the side as he steps in closer, leaving her no choice but to back up against the car, the tire, still warm from the road, pressing up against her calves. "What have you been told, Pamela?" he asks her.

She swallows, already regretting saying anything, but the look of mild interest on his face somehow manages to spur her to speak. "That I'm a freak."

He doesn't argue with that fact, his eyebrows only knitting together. "Who told you this?"

She shrugs, looking away. "Kids in school…you know, the usual. We moved around a lot," she whispers, wondering why she can't seem to stop herself from speaking, hating that even all these years later the taunts of those children still affect her. With gallant effort, she pushes it all away, forcing a smile to her lips as she finally looks back up into his piercing blue eyes, shrugging again as she adds proudly, "Dean kicked their asses. It's no big deal."

Eric still stares down at her with that peculiar look on his face, before he reaches up, grasping her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "You are intimidating," he says softly, as if that provides an explanation for the cruelty of schoolchildren two decades ago.

"I wasn't when I was six," she answers with a smile.

"Perhaps not quite in the way you are now," he replies in a soft voice, the accent she's noticed now and then slightly thicker as he seems to choose his words carefully, "With your guns and knives. But you were still smart. Still beautiful."

She can feel heat rush to her cheeks at the small compliment, berating herself for letting him have such an effect on her, and she looks away shyly as she whispers, "I was nothing but knees and elbows and huge bunny teeth until I was sixteen, Eric."

He grins at the thought, and she stands, frozen in place, as his hand rises, brushing the backs of his fingers against her warmed cheeks as he whispers, "Maybe so. But you still had these eyes." His fingers lower, barely brushing the tip of his index finger over the swell of her full lower lip, his eyes dropping to watch as he traces it. "And these lips." His eyes are suddenly boring into hers, seeming to surprise himself with his own words, "And that mind of yours. Fucking _stunning_."

She blinks up at him, struggling with her own feelings as they bubble up inside her. She had experienced many, many men's oogling and empty compliments, most of which were aimed at her body and its ample assets.

But she's suddenly unsure that she's ever been told she was beautiful so sincerely, and positive she's never been complemented on her _mind_ in that manner. She bites her lip as he somehow manages to creep closer, glancing up at him through her lashes as she leans back ever so slightly out of his looming reach.

"You are not a freak," he whispers, his blue eyes peering down into hers.

"Really?" she asks coyly, "I'm outside of a morgue, in the dark, with a vampire." She makes a half-hearted attempt to push against his chest, which only makes him move closer, leaving her practically laying against the hood of his car. "A vampire that can't take no for an answer."

He seems to consider her statement for a moment, before he concedes defeat. "I never said you were _normal_. You're delightfully…abnormal." He beams down at her, before his eyes narrow. "And I do not recall hearing you say no, Pamela."

She smirks, although she pointedly continues not to say the word, instead pushing against his chest once again. "I've got work to do."

Still, he doesn't move, his eyes only shifting to study the way her long, blonde hair pools on the red paint of the hood. "I've imagined this," he says softly, almost thoughtfully.

"Imagined what?" she asks somewhat breathlessly.

"Fucking you here, on my car," he replies pointblank, smiling at her sharp intake of breath before her efforts to move him away redouble. He stands to his full height, gripping her elbow to help her right herself, shrugging as he adds, "What? I like this car."

She rolls her eyes as she straightens her dress, turning her eyes to the building that looms behind them. "You need a hobby," she shoots back as she forces herself to move away, her flip flops barely making a sound as she walks towards the entrance.

Eric falls into step behind her, muttering under his breath, "I've found one recently, as it turns out."

"Hmm?" she asks as she reaches for the brass handle of the door, turning to look up at him as he reaches over her head, gripping the wood to hold it open for her.

"Nothing," he answers, gesturing her inside.

She shrugs as she steps under his arm and into the building. Their footsteps echo in the long, silent hallway as she leads the way to where she visited with her brother a few days before, remembering the receptionist's directions, third door on the right.

She pulls open the heavy metal door, shivering when the cold blast of air from inside rushes out to greet her. Her eyes turn to her left when a bald, portly man comes around the corner in scrubs, his apron as well as the blue gloves that come up to his elbows stained dark with blood. She gives the man her friendliest smile as he carefully unhooks the facemask he's wearing from his ear with his cleanest finger, trying to ignore how his eyes travel down her body and back up again before he speaks, cursing Dean again for not giving her time to go change.

"Agent…Plant, right?" the man asks.

"Nice to see you again, Dr. Stewart," she replies, reaching for her purse to show him her identification. Her face falls into a frown when she realizes she left it in Eric's car, once again allowing him to distract her too much. "I, uh," she says, shaking her head at herself, "I seem to have left my credentials in the car."

"S'okay," he responds jovially, stepping close enough that she can smell that same metallic tang of the blood that he's spattered in from some recent autopsy. "I never forget a pretty face. Looks like it's your night off?"

She gives him an unamused look. "It was."

"Where's your partner?" he asks in what she's sure is supposed to be his attempt at a sultry purr.

"He's at the crime scene still. This is…" She trails off as she looks over her shoulder, expecting to find Eric behind her, but he's nowhere to be seen.

She frowns at the empty hallway just outside the small square window on the door, turning around in time to see the last of the man's pleased smile be wiped clean from his face. "Just the two of us, then?"

"Yeah," she deadpans, "Just the two of us. In the morgue, surrounded by dead people. How romantic."

"I thought so, too," a deep voice rumbles behind her as Eric steps into the refrigerated room, shrugging as he comes to a stop next to her. "Apparently _Agent Plant_ doesn't agree. Such a shame, wouldn't you agree, Doctor?"

Pam's jaw clenches in irritation as she turns her gaze back to the only other living person in the room, finding him staring at Eric like he's starstruck. "Mr. Northman," he breathes, "I saw you on TV."

"That's nice," he answers with a shred of irritation in his voice. "Come here, and look at me."

The man obliges immediately, and Pam can see the change in him the moment his eyes lock with the vampire's, his face slackening as his eyes glaze over ever so slightly, apparently completely under his control.

"Where is the newest victim? The young lady?" Eric asks.

"Just put her up," he answers in a dreamy tone.

"Have you written up your report yet, Dr. Stewart?" Eric prods him.

"No sir," he replies, shaking his head in just the tiniest increments side to side.

"Well isn't that wonderful news," Eric breathes, before he addresses Pam. "Go do what you need to do."

"Um, okay," she says, her eyes lingering on them for another moment before she walks behind Eric's back and into the main part of the morgue, whispering under her breath not for the first time that evening, "Rude." She finds one of the refrigerated compartments to be standing open, and after examining the toe tag, she pulls out the drawer.

She listens to the conversation going on in the next room as she pulls back the sheet, revealing a young woman around her age, with hair the same color as hers.

"When you write your report, you're going to list the cause of death as another animal attack, correct?" Eric asks the coroner in that velvety smooth voice of his.

"Yes, sir," she hears Dr. Stewart reply as she reaches for a rubber glove from the box on the nearby counter, before gently turning the woman's head to the side to examine her single injury; a vicious tear at her throat, severing the jugular, just like all the rest. "So sad," the coroner breathes, "All these young girls."

"Animal attack," Eric reiterates, and Pam rolls her eyes as she prods at the wound, grimacing as she feels something poke her back. Their conversation falls into the background as she leans closer, parting the ragged, bloodless flesh with her gloved fingers. Her stomach only turns when she faintly smells roses and realizes the girl used the same shampoo she does, probably when she was getting ready the night before, having no idea she was going to be attacked by creatures that shouldn't exist and lose her life. Unaware that she was about to be unfairly stolen away from her life and friends and family.

"Done?" Eric chirps from behind her suddenly, and she huffs angrily as she loses her grip on the object embedded in the victim's neck.

"No," she hisses, "I'm not. And I need my fucking phone."

He seems taken aback by her change in tone. "What's wrong?" he asks, looking at her, almost boyishly confused.

"What's wrong?" she repeats, turning to look at him. "What's _wrong_? Where should I start? There's a fucking vampire's _tooth_ in that girl's neck."

He tilts his head, as if he doesn't understand why that's making her angry, and she gestures behind her to the dead woman. "_This_ is not what I do."

He blinks, looking down at her gloved hand, before back up at her face. "You seemed pretty comfortable sticking your fingers in a dead body to me."

"_Eric_," she practically shrieks in exasperation. "Not _that_," she explains, gesturing with the fingers in question, "_This_. All of this. Dean and I save people from monsters. We _kill _them."

"And?" he answers, obviously not seeing the problem.

"_And_," she hisses, "Here's _another_ dead girl. They're piling up around us. We're not saving them." She runs her clean hand through her hair in irritation, before she pinches the bridge of her nose. "_I'm_ not saving them. They are being murdered, and what am I doing? Helping _you_ cover up their murders."

"Pamela," he begins, but she shakes her head, cutting him off.

"Don't _Pamela_ me," she answers with a scowl, before she turns around, ripping a pair of hemostats off the counter before stomping back over to the body. She bends down, jabbing them into the wound, pinching them together before she extracts a single curved, claw-like tooth.

She drops it into her palm, inspecting it and confirming what she of course already knew, that it came from one of the mutated vampires that are responsible for all the other murders they couldn't prevent. No matter how many they killed, no matter how many nights they spent wandering the woods, hunting them, there was just more and more, every night.

She tears off the glove from her small hand, tossing it in the wastebasket before she turns and marches straight up to Eric, the toes of her pink flip flops pressed against the toes of his black boots.

She reaches out, shoving the tooth into the pocket of his jeans, before tilting her head back to glare up into his curious expression, practically seething in her anger.

"There you go," she scorns, "The last of your evidence, so no one will _ever_ know how these girls died. It'll be our little secret, until you glamour the memories away from _me_ too, right?"

"Pamela," he says sternly, his eyes narrowing dangerously at her.

"You _promised _me," she goes on as if he never said a word. "You said when you asked me to help you that we'd fix this. Not just cover up their tracks while they continued to kill innocent people."

"It's not just humans that are in danger," he retorts, his own ire obviously beginning to rise.

"Oh yes, _excuse _me," she snaps back sarcastically. "I shouldn't worry about the useless, helpless humans that are dying left and right. The ones who it's my job to protect. I should be worried about _your_ kind, right? The immortal fucking _monsters_, who it's my job to eradicate?"

"If I can't keep this quiet," he snarls, his glacial eyes narrowed into slits, "They will come after me. They will come after all of us. And do you know who _else_ they will come after?" When she doesn't respond, he answers his question for her. "Everyone we come in contact with. All of our known associates. Do you know who is _my_ known associate, Pamela?"

"Me," she spits out. "But I didn't sign up for _this_," she gestures towards the doctor who stands in the doorway, watching their shouting match with unfocused eyes. "I'm not helping anyone. I'm helping _hide_ these murders. Sweeping them under a rug. Watching you as you fuck with their brains. What's the lasting effects of that, anyway? Brain damage?"

"Pamela," he growls, ignoring her questions, "This is bigger than me and you, and your brother, and Castiel. I did not ask for your help lightly. I _need _it."

"You need _our_ help?" she asks incredulously, taking a step back from him. "Where were _you_ last night when Dean and I were out hunting? More vampires than we should have taken on alone?"

He falls silent for a moment, his scrutiny so intense it leaves her swearing to herself that she can feel his gaze as if it's a physical weight. Finally, he leans away slightly, rocking back on his heels before lifting and tilting his head in an unnatural, almost reptilian movement that reminds her that he's not human. He finally answers her question with a question, as she's noticed he seems to do entirely too often. "Do you really want to know?" he asks her softly, his voice and words conflicting with the forced blank indifference on his face.

She blinks, a resounding affirmation perched on the tip of her tongue, but she bites it back as she eyes him warily. Her next thought is that she may not _want_ to know the answer, afraid that his extracurricular activities could land him back on her 'to kill' list. But then she realizes just how much she _needs_ to know, as if something larger than she's ready to admit hinges on rather or not he gives her the right or wrong answer. She swallows, before she finally goes with her first instinct, her voice barely a whisper when she responds, "Yes. I do."

He smirks, although the expression doesn't meet his eyes as he closes the short distance she's put between them with one stride. "Very well, then," he answers softly, and she watches as his gaze falls down to her lips, staying there as he speaks, his deep baritone rumbling out of him. "Last night, there was another pressing matter that required my attention. More important, in my opinion, than assisting you and your brother in the hunt."

"What…" she begins, before she swallows in an attempt to keep her voice steady in his close proximity. "What were you doing?"

"Trying my very _best_ to track down every one of those fucking redneck humans that saw your face the other night," he rasps, his blue eyes boring into hers. "I was doing what needed to be done to keep _you_ safe."

She blinks, her blue eyes growing impossibly wide as she stares up at him for a moment that seems to drag on. Her voice is scarcely audible when she finally speaks, a sick feeling building in the pit of her stomach with the knowledge of what she might have to do, depending on how he answers her question. "Did…did you kill them?"

She watches Eric's eyes roll dramatically. "Yes, Pam," he deadpans, and she nearly starts, sure he's never addressed her as anything but that ridiculous purr of _Pamela_ since she's made his acquaintance. "I did. I killed thirty-something humans, because my ultimate goal here is to leave a trail of bodies all over Shreveport. Are you fucking serious?"

Pam releases the breath she was holding, and her relief must be plainly written across her face because he rolls his eyes again. "Look," he begins, "If I killed every person that saw something I don't want them to see, the world's population would _not _be what it is today. And there would _be_ no sheriff, or coroner, or sheriff's department for that matter." He scoffs at her as if she's nuts, and continues on, glaring at her. "You may not _like_ that I'm changing your precious humans' memories, princess, but I would hazard a guess that you would prefer that over the other available option."

She merely blinks at him, not quite registering at least half of his rant. "Why?" she whispers.

"Why what?" he snaps.

"Why did you track them down?" she asks him, her eyes wide and luminous.

"Because they _saw_ you," he hisses, stepping closer so she's left pressing back into the counter behind her.

"So what?" she whispers thinly as she tilts her chin higher to keep contact with his eyes as he towers over her, her hands reaching behind her shakily to grip the edge of the countertop.

He chuckles good-naturedly, his smile leaving little crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he leans closer, gripping the counter next to her hands. His smiling face lowers hers, until his entire countenance changes right before her eyes, suddenly looking much more vampire than human when his eyes narrow dangerously, predatorily; the sharp points of his fangs visible just below his lip.

His voice drops to a gravely, rumbling growl, which never gets an octave above a whisper. "They saw you with me," he answers, his accent thick in his slowly spoken words, "They pointed a _gun_ at you. They wanted to hurt you. They could have found you, and I…I couldn't…I found the idea…_unacceptable_." He hisses out the word with contempt, all while Pam stares up at him in surprise, never having heard him speak so ineloquently.

Her eyes fall to watch his throat move when he swallows, before flickering back up to meet his gaze as he adds in a voice abruptly gone strangely thick. "I removed only you from their memories, the ones I could find. They saw only me that night, not you. I made sure they do not know you exist. But rest assured, Pamela, if I couldn't control their minds and alter their memories, I _would_ have slaughtered them all." He allows only a second for his words to sink in, before he speaks with finality, as if his word equals law. "You _will be_ safe."

Speechless, Pam stares up at him, trying her best to force her mind to keep up with her suddenly hammering heart. "Why?" she asks softly after a moment, when she finds her voice again. "Why would you—"

"Because I _want_ to," he growls, interrupting her, reaching up to grip her chin in his hand as he lowers his lips to within inches of hers. "Because I fucking want _you_," he adds in a hoarse whisper, almost angrily, as if he is annoyed by that fact.

"Eric, I…" she begins, but she finds herself raising her chin despite her protests, searching out his lips. But it's then, of course, that Dr. Stewart seems to snap out of his trance, although he walks past them as if they aren't even there, pressed against each other and practically bent over his counter. Pam blinks, almost shrugging it off, until the coroner begins to whistle a happy tune, punctuated by the sound of the drawer being slammed shut, leaving the poor girl's body in darkness.

She reaches up, encircling his wrist with both hands where he still grips her chin, before one moves to press against the center of his chest, stopping him when he leans closer.

"Eric, we're…in a morgue," she whispers. "There's a dead girl. And a not dead guy."

"I fail to see your point," he retorts, but to her surprise he pulls away, only enough to stand upright again.

She wets her lips, glancing away before meeting his eyes again. "Can we just…get out of here?" she asks him, suddenly feeling shy.

"Oh, yes," he replies with a wolfish grin, reaching for her arm.

"No, I mean…" she begins, pulling her arm from his grasp. "I need to…before we go, I need pictures."

"I have a photographic memory," he replies matter-of-factly, reaching for her again.

"Eric, _no_," she replies, shaking her head as she stills his hand with her own. They both look down as their fingers touch, before her eyes return to his, her voice trembling slightly as she whispers, "It…it'll only take a minute."

He huffs like a petulant child, which makes her crack a smile. "Fine," he replies shortly as he crosses his arms over his chest, his fangs still down as he hisses, "_Hurry_."

She nods, suddenly flustered by his still close proximity, and begins to pat down the front of her dress over her hips as if she has pockets, before her face suddenly lights up with recognition. "Oh! I left my phone in your car."

He raises an eyebrow. "And?"

"_And_," she mocks as she steps toward him, only to have her path blocked by his hulking frame. "_And_, get out of my way so I can go get it." She smiles sweetly up at him as she adds in a sarcastic tone that contrasts with her expression. "_Please_."

He shakes his head, his hands on her shoulders stopping her as she tries to move around him. "I'll get it. I'm faster. Go have your friend over there get the body back out."

She gives him a pointed look, before she shakes her head right back. "Nuh-uh," she retorts, "Nope. You'll rifle through my purse."

He merely grins as he turns away. "Of course I will," he replies as he pulls open the door to the morgue, pausing just inside of it to look back at her, all amusement suddenly gone from his features as he speaks firmly. "Stay _put_."

Her face screws up in a scowl at his command, flicking her middle finger up at him in response long enough for him to grin at her before he turns away. Her eyes drop, staring unabashedly at the way his jeans seem to be custom made for him until he disappears behind the door, and several seconds thereafter until she forcefully shakes herself out of her reverie.

"Okay," she whispers to herself, her brain still struggling to keep up with the constant decisions the rest of her seems to be making without its consent, "Alright."

She forces herself to turn away, only to find the coroner staring blankly at the door where Eric just disappeared out of. "Hey," she speaks quietly, waving her hand around to capture his attention. "Dr. Stewart…remember me?"

"Yes," he answers immediately, smiling proudly as he nods his head. "Agent Plant."

"Right," she agrees, regarding his odd demeanor curiously. "Could you…" She gestures at the door of the drawer the newest victim now resides in, and the man immediately nods his head, unlatching the door before pulling her back out.

She tilts her head to the side when she hears something faintly, but blames it on the clanging ball bearings of the metal drawer as she steps closer to the body. She reaches down, prodding gently at the wound once again, eyeing the obvious signs of near bloodlessness at the time of death as she waits for him to return with her phone.

This time, she _knows_ she hears something, and she stands up straight, struggling to hear. Her eyes narrow as she creeps towards the door, her entire body going on high alert when she hears plainly more than one voice outside, first Eric's, and then a gruff voice she doesn't recognize.

She reaches for the handle of the door, only to be stopped by the deep voice behind her. "Hey," the doctor supplies helpfully, "Mr. Northman told you to stay here."

Pam pulls a face as she looks back at him. "Hey, shut the fuck up. I liked you better when you were a mute."

Without waiting for the glamoured man's reply, she slips through the door, peering down the long, empty hallway. The front door that they walked through stands wide open, and Pam quietly kicks off her flip flops, before padding barefoot and silent to the end of the hall, leaning up against the wall just beside the open door.

Her head turns towards it, dropping her eyes, and it's then that she notices the blood spattered across the concrete just on the other side of the door. She can feel her heartbeat begin to speed up as dread fills her, but she freezes when she hears Eric's voice, much hoarser than normal, filtering through.

"She's not fucking _here_," he growls.

"Yeah, she is," another male voice responds. "We saw you two practically fuckin' out here earlier. And then she went in with you. We ain't stupid."

"It's me you want," Eric grinds out, and she feels her throat tighten at the pain that he's obviously in, that he's trying and failing to keep from his voice, desperate for just a peek to see what's wrong, and how she can fix it. "And you have me."

Yet another voice laughs humorlessly. "We're here for the two-for-one deal," he sneers, "The vampire _and_ his whore."

For a moment, anger wins out over her anxiousness, as well as her self-preservation instinct, and she slowly begins to step out into the door way. Her breath hitches in her throat at the sight before her as panic floods her veins, and only Eric's soft voice anchors her in her spot before she steps over the threshold.

"Pamela, _don't_," he calls out to her from where he's been shoved down to his knees, several paces away from her. Her eyes quickly take in the chains wrapped around him, burning deeply into his skin where they touch, the silver they're obviously made out of incapacitating his usual strength, leaving him doubtfully able to overwhelm his attackers alone. Her gaze moves to his, and she sucks in a sharp, panicked breath as she notices that the man who stands over him has a pistol pointed at him, pressing against his forehead. Despite that, Eric's eyes stay trained on her, pleading with her silently until he voices it. "_Please_."

Pam forces her eyes away from his, rising to meet the man who she suddenly recognizes as the ringleader of the group who bombarded them at Eric's bar a few nights before. She swallows in an attempt to tamp down the fear she knows will be audible in her voice, which still comes out in hardly more than a whisper. "You're looking for me?" she asks the man, proud of the steadiness of her tone and the friendly smile she manages to bring to her face.

The man closest to her smiles wickedly, looking over at his friends before down at Eric, pressing the gun harder against his forehead as he addresses him. "Man…lips like those?" he starts, before jerking his chin over his shoulder in Pam's direction, "Bet she _does_ suck good dick."

She sneers. "Wouldn't you like to know," she hisses, as she slowly moves her hand down behind her back, wondering if she can retrieve the knife strapped to her thigh without them noticing. Desperately, she wishes she hadn't left her purse where her trusty Beretta resides in Eric's car, far too out of her reach.

The man grins, revealing a mouthful of disgusting, rotting teeth. "Maybe I'll find out before the night is over, sweetheart."

Eric snarls, baring his fangs at the man, and Pam winces as he lifts his gun, striking Eric hard across his cheek with its butt, splitting open the skin. She takes another step towards the door as blood gushes from the fresh wound, but suddenly he's speaking, desperation thick in his tone.

"Pamela," he whispers, "Go inside. Lock yourself in. Call your brother."

"Look at him," the man chuckles to his comrades, pressing the barrel of the pistol to Eric's forehead again. "All worried. Aw, do y'all think he's in love with her? Ain't that sweet." Pam stiffens as he glances back to her. "You should've heard him. 'I'll give you _anything_.'" He laughs, and the sound echoes through his partners. "Caught yourself a fuckin' vamper. Girl, you must be a _real_ good lay."

"Fuck you," she hisses, before her voice lowers to a deadly tone, "Let him go."

"Nah," he replies, "I was sent here for _both_ of y'all, and ain't leaving without both."

Pam's hand makes contact with the hilt of the blade underneath her skirt as she steps closer to the threshold of the door, and the movement is enough to break Eric from his silence.

"Don't, Pamela," he warns her, his eyes cutting slightly to her right before returning to hers. "I'll be fine. _Go inside_."

"No," she whispers, dread beginning to build in the pit of her stomach.

The man grins at her, before turning his gaze back to Eric's. "What about her?" he asks him in a suddenly soft voice, and when Eric arches an eyebrow, he chooses to elaborate. "Does she love you, too?" Eric's face stays completely blank, betraying nothing either way, and the man tilts his head to the side as he smiles again. "You wanna find out? I sure do."

The sound of the gun's hammer cocking back seems to echo in her ears, and she barely has time to scream out a _no_ before a deafening blast sounds around them.

"Eric!"

His name is ripped from her lips in a choked sob as she watches him crumple onto his side, the sound of her voice tearing through the total silence that fell the moment the ring of the gunshot faded away. A single bullethole drips blood from between his eyes that stare lifelessly up at her, glazed over, and before she can think or stop herself she throws herself out of the building, the concrete cold against her bare feet.

She barely makes it two steps in his direction before strong arms wrap around her from behind, jerking her up against someone's broad chest. She screams as she tries to kick back into her attacker, but it's then that she feels the pinch in the side of her neck.

Immediately, the man drops her, and she tumbles down onto her hands and knees on the asphalt, barely registering it as the rough surface breaks her skin. She reaches blindly up to her neck, her fingers closing around something that protrudes from it, and she winces when she pulls it away, blinking her suddenly heavy eyes as she holds it up to her face.

She throws the needle and empty syringe to the side, cursing as she attempts to crawl towards Eric's motionless form, but the world seems to tilt around her, knocking her off balance.

"Eric," she whispers as her crawl slows to a stop, unable to hold herself up any longer. She collapses within a few feet of him, and when she reaches out, her fingers are able to barely brush his cheek as she chokes out her last slurred words, "Look at me. _Please._"

She registers just the slightest twitch of his eyes moving towards hers, before everything she knows goes pitch black.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Remember when I said things wouldn't always be so fluffy? Yeah, that. :|**

**Reviews please?**


	11. Chapter 11

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

"Dean," Pam whispers in a hoarse voice, "Turn the water off."

_Drip. Drip._

"Dean," she whines pitifully, reaching up to clamp her hands over her ears to silence the annoying repetitive noise, each drop of water sounding like an atomic explosion in her pounding head.

_Drip._

She wrinkles her nose, confused as to why she can still hear the sound; not only why her brother isn't answering her requests, but also why her hands never moved from her side when she told them to cover her ears.

Realization begins to hit, and it's then she begins to panic.

She tries to move her arms, only to glean the tiniest twitch of her littlest finger; her attempts to move her legs not even offering that much in return.

But even though she seems to have no control over her body, a shiver runs through it all the same, bringing to her attention just how cold she is. Freezing, in fact, leaving a throbbing ache in her bare toes. She can feel the unwavering chill of smooth concrete beneath her cheek, and as she draws in as deep of a breath as she's able, she nearly retches as a thick mildewed smell permeates her senses from the dank air.

Basement, she thinks to herself groggily. But why?

Her head feels thick, her brain fuzzy as she tries to muddle through what seems to be nothing but blackness where her memories should be. Although the darkness closes in around her, willing her back into her peaceful slumber, she struggles to remain awake even if she can't seem to force her eyes to cooperate and open.

Vaguely, she remembers eating dinner, remembering the taste of the single bite of pie she stole from her brother. And then call that interrupted them, sending them from the bright warmth of the cheap diner to tromping through the woods in the dark.

Her recollections seem hazy as she remembers her irritation with the sheriff and her conversations with her brother and Castiel, although the fogginess seems to clear as soon as the _other_ sheriff enters her memories, his irritatingly golden perfection traversing her thoughts in picture-perfect clarity, right down to the boyishly playful gleam in his eye when he stepped in close to greet her.

The thought of him brings the slightest hint of a smile to her full lips, although the effort to maintain it for more than a fraction of a second seems far too great to put forth. The intention remains, though, as she recalls his outrageous flirtations, only laying it on thicker and thicker the more she rebuffed him.

Her mind reminds her only in passing of the dead girl she went to examine, focusing instead on the more pleasant memories; the things he said, and the look in his eyes when he said them…pure honesty, something that she wasn't sure until then that he was even capable of.

And, for all her complaints and defensiveness to the contrary, her wayward mind settles, happily enough, on the way the long line of his body felt pressed against hers, seeing no reason in her current state of mind to deny herself that small pleasure. The way his fingers felt when he touched her; cold, but nothing like the frigid hardness of the floor that sucks the warmth from her now. Instead, his touch was gentle, the cool brush of his fingertip against her cheek flooding her with a strong, most foreign sense of safety, so much so that she feels herself slowly losing her grip on consciousness, lulled into serenity at the mere memory of it.

Her memories slowly stumble forward, through her sudden decision to leave with him, without letting herself worry about what might come next, to the anticipation that started to trickle through her while she waited for him to return so they could go.

Her brow wrinkles delicately, or at least, she _intends _for it to, when she struggles to connect the dots of what happened next. For a moment, there's only that inky blackness, and it slowly begins to fill her, dragging her down into it as her conscious thought dwindles.

A voice sounds from somewhere, seemingly miles away, but it's familiar enough that for a second she's able to focus all her energy on lucidity.

"I _told_ you, dumbass," the voice jeers from somewhere up above, before it trails off into nothingness, as if she's been submerged in water that's slowly filling her ears, drowning out all sound and sensation besides the suffocating darkness.

She's heard that voice before, she thinks almost absently, until she suddenly recalls where she's heard it in perfect clarity. That haughty, sneering tone, thick with disdain, hissing out hateful words that she remembers being barely able to hear over the sound of her pounding heart.

"_Do y'all think he's in love with her?"_

"No," Pam whispers, fear shooting through her as the beginnings of recognition hit, although she isn't completely sure her lips produced any sound.

Then there are footsteps on the stairs, and more gruff voices, and the memory of those unblinking eyes staring up at her all in quick succession. The thick blackness closes in around her, suffocating her as the horror truly hits her; realization dawning simultaneously, sparing a thought for the gravity of her current situation before moving onto _him_.

Hot tears streak down her cheeks as she fights futilely against the impending darkness, but she knows she can't win, knows she's already too late. This time, she's sure she hears the faint echo of her hoarse voice, only able to croak out one word before unconsciousness reclaims her.

"_Eric_."

She awakens with a start, her hands moving to cover her eyes, shielding them from the blinding fluorescent lighting that greeted her when she opened them. A groan escapes her as she curls in on herself, her head aching from both the light and the soft sound she just made, echoing in her ears like cannon fire.

Although her thoughts still come sluggishly, she quickly takes stock of her situation: seemingly intact, although sore and dangerously cold. She opens her eyes, taking a quick look around before she shuts them again, allowing her slow-moving brain to process her surroundings and assuring herself she's alone, before she cautiously opens them again.

Her eyes slowly sweep around the area that she lies in, her gaze traveling up the chain-link fencing that makes up two of the walls, and the barred door, effectively caging her in, before moving to the leaking pipe on the ceiling that had woken her the first time. She can't see out from her place on the floor, her view blocked by shelving and the boxes that line them, but since she's relatively sure no one can see her, she attempts to move.

Her hands move to cover her mouth to keep her groan muffled when she rolls over onto her back, every bone in her body painfully protesting her movement, leaving her wondering just how long she's been down there, lying motionless on the cold, unforgiving floor. She slowly moves her hand down her body, her fingers bunching up the fabric of her now dingy sundress, closing her eyes in defeat when she feels nothing but the empty holster strapped to her thigh, the knife that belongs in it missing. Taken from her, and leaving her with taking her chances on meeting whatever lies outside that door unarmed.

With her head pounding agonizingly with her every movement, she slowly makes her way into a seated position, one hand bracing her weight on the concrete floor behind her while she rubs her temple with the other, trying to quiet the dull roar growing inside her brain. It's then that she notices the dried blood on her palms and her knees, and the dinginess of what was one of her nicer dresses, the pink fabric now stained with dirt and grime.

Reaching out for the closest metal shelf, she winces as the pole she wraps her hand around presses against the cuts on her palm that she vaguely remembers earning herself when she fell to the ground in the parking lot. Slowly, carefully, she pulls herself up onto her bloodied knees, before shakily climbing to her bare feet.

She clutches onto the shelf as she inches towards the door, still dizzy and unsteady from the drugs that must be, by now at least, working their way out of her system. Nonetheless, they've left her wobbly at best on her feet, and no doubt unable to defend herself if she were to come in contact with anyone outside the door.

But she knows staying until she's stronger isn't an option, and although she's hopeful that her absence has been noticed by her brother, she knows better than to rely on a rescue. And so, she concentrates on placing one foot in front of the other, supporting her weight on the rungs of the shelf until she's able to wrap her hand around the doorknob.

She takes a deep breath, preparing herself for what might lie just outside, before she twists the knob. But instead of finding herself on her path to freedom, she finds that the knob doesn't turn at all, and she winces as she releases the knob, the clanging of the metal echoing throughout the small room. The sound hurts her throbbing head, leaving her sure that everyone in a five mile radius heard the noise.

She freezes, waiting to hear the sound of footsteps coming, fully prepared to throw herself back down onto the floor and play dead once again. But when she's met with only continued silence, she forces herself to focus her blurry vision, stooping down to examine the simple lock.

For a moment she stares dumbly at the mechanism, unsure in her still slightly hazy mind of what to do. But she soon snaps into action, and even as her limbs protest the action, she reaches her hands up into her hair, running her fingers through her loose curls. She had started the night with two bobby pins holding a few wisps of hair back from her face, but after hiking through the woods, and everything else that has happened along the way, she can feel that they're gone from their original position. But towards the end of one long lock, she finds a single pin barely hanging on, and she pulls it away before holding it up in front of her face.

"Okay," she whispers to it, "Please, _please_ don't break."

She nods at it as if that seals some sort of agreement between she and the inanimate object, before she slowly lowers herself down, placing her ear by the lock as she slides the narrow piece of metal inside.

It takes her a few moments, losing her concentration as light-headedness comes and goes, but she finally hears the last pin in the lock fall into place, and the door's knob turns easily in her palm. Being careful to be as quiet as possible, she slowly opens the door, taking a deep breath before she peers outside of it.

Her eyes sweep around the large, cluttered space, letting out a breath of relief when she finds it mercifully empty, giving her a few more moments to collect herself. She clutches onto the doorframe, refusing to step out just yet in case she needs to retreat as she searches the area around her for something she can use as a weapon.

Finding nothing, she takes a tentative step out into the main part of the basement, her eyes darting around for any sign of movement. When everything remains still, she moves a little further, far enough out that she's forced to let go of the door, leaving her stranded on her quavering legs. With almost all the basement in view, she's able to form a weak gameplan: since there's no windows, she'll have no choice but to make a break for the stairs, and pray that she finds something sharp and or dangerous along the way.

Even as she thinks the word _pray_, she berates herself internally for not having thought of that before, even though that is isn't quite her area of expertise. She moves back against the wall, leaning her weight against it as she closes her eyes.

"Cas," she whispers as quietly as she can manage, opening her eyes to glance around nervously before she hisses, "_Castiel_."

She scowls when the angel doesn't appear, as she's seen him do quite a bit lately since her brother seems to call him when they don't necessarily _need_ his help. But it seems Castiel only has one Winchester hotline, and it's quite obviously not her lucky day. Or night.

Giving up on that escape route, she squares her shoulders, before trudging off with purpose. Her head still spins from the after-effects of the drugs, and she reaches blindly for the wall to steady herself as she begins to inch towards the steps she spots on the far side of the room.

Although it seems miles away with the small, measured steps she's taking, eventually she feels her hand close around the rough-hewn wooden bannister of the stairs. She breathes a sigh of relief, turning to glance around the brightly lit basement one last time for something she can use as a weapon, when she suddenly goes stock still, struggling to force her eyes to focus.

She stands on her tiptoes to better see over a stack of boxes, before crouching down again, her eyes growing wide as she blinks down at the ground, before looking up again, confirming that she wasn't seeing things.

"Eric?" she whispers in a voice softened by fear, coming out as a question instead of a statement. Dread fills her as what she's sure is a flash of blonde hair, in a nearly identical makeshift cell as her former residence across the basement, doesn't move at the sound of her voice.

She glances away, an odd memory surfacing in her hazy mind. She can hear her brother's voice clearly, almost as if he's there with her, giving her one of many first lessons when she was just starting out hunting by his side, barely old enough to handle a shotgun.

"_If we get caught, get yourself out first. Go get help, and _then _come back for me_."

She glances up the stairs, Dean's voice from what constituted her childhood ringing in her ears, knowing that she should already be up them, taking her chance while she has it to try to escape before someone returns to find her awake and missing.

But yet she finds herself turning so fast it sends her head spinning, clumsily running off in the other direction, leaving the stairs in her wake; mentally apologizing to her brother for ignoring his instructions.

She slows when she comes closer, inhaling sharply as he comes into her view, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. She hesitates only a second before she moves as quickly as she's able to the door, her stomach lurching in panic when she finds it unlocked at the thought that they didn't _need_ to lock him in.

She throws open the door before she scrambles inside, falling down to her knees beside his prone form. Her hands flit over him fretfully as she stares down into his face, paler than she's ever seen it and still as a statue, never quite touching him as she whispers to him, "Eric. _Eric_. Wake up."

Her words glean her no response, and her breaths begin to come in panicked bursts as she forces herself to look down at the thick silver chains still draped over him, immediately reaching for the one thrown across his shoulders and chest. She begins to pull it away, only to drop it immediately when she feels the resistance from where it's seared into his skin, her throat tightening painfully as she glances down, still struggling to focus, to see where the silver has burned straight through the thin layer of cotton offered by his shirt and into his skin. Wisps of smoke rise from the raw and bloody flesh, leaving a sickening scent in the air that, at any other time, she would tell herself was the cause of the stinging tears in her eyes.

But currently, she can't spare them a thought, casting a nervous glance over her shoulder before she turns back to him. She reaches for him, holding his face in her hands as she gently rolls him onto his back. "Eric," she whispers in a thick voice, moving one hand up to brush his hair away from his forehead, a shuddering breath leaving her when it exposes the dimpled flesh where he was shot. Her fingers trail across his cheeks and the blood that spatters them, barely even aware of how much they tremble as she touches his cool skin.

"Eric," she repeats shakily, "Eric, _please_ wake up." She moves her hands as she creeps closer on her knees, cradling his head as she gently lays him back down onto the concrete, something akin to a sob escaping her lips when her fingers sink into the blood soaking the back of his head, his hair sticky with what the bullet spilled upon its exit.

This time when she speaks her voice is laced with an edge of hysteria, although it never gets louder than a whisper. "Eric," she pleads, "I _need_ you to wake up." She glances again behind her at the stairwell, knowing that every second she postpones her assent she is putting herself at greater risk of getting caught down there, trapped with no escape and no way to defend herself. But even as her mind, calling on both her training and her instincts, tell her to flee, she turns back to him, her hands touching his cheeks as she turns his face up to hers.

She lowers herself to place her lips by his ear, pressing her cheek to his. She closes her eyes, causing the tears that were rimming her lower lids to spill over, wetting both of their cheeks as she whispers softly, desperation leaking into her tone, "I can't leave you here. I just can't." She takes a slow, shuddering breath, wishing those words weren't as true as they are, as true as she _knows_ them to be, adding in a voice that's somehow both harsh and soft at the same time, "You're going to get us killed."

She turns her head ever so slightly, just enough to bring his bloodstained face into her view. Her fingers stroke softly across his cheeks as she assures herself that he _can't_ be dead, actually _finally_ dead, if he's still in once piece. When her tears fall on his face, mingling with the blood there, she smooths the wetness away with her thumbs as she finally murmurs the truth. "Look, I don't _want_ to leave you, okay? There, I said it. Are you happy now?"

Her fingers still stroke his cheeks as she lowers her face to his, staring down at him as if she can will his eyes to open by sheer force; waiting on him to laugh at her and say 'I told you so'. But it never comes, and she hardly hears the foreign choking sound leave her lips; her vision blurring, but not from the drugs this time as she realizes what she'll have no choice but to do.

"I'll…I'll be right back," she whispers, words that benefit her much more than the man who can't hear them. "I'll get Dean, and I'll…we'll be right back." She pauses, swallowing the lump in her throat as she forces herself to pull away, knowing that there's no way she can get him _and_ herself to safety. "Cas will come. He'll…he'll know how to fix you." She blinks back tears as she sits up, preparing her still uncooperative body to rise to her feet, when she pauses, looking down at him. All at once, her last hazy memories before everything turned black come back in full color; the sight of him crumpling to the ground bonelessly, as if he were a puppet whose strings were cut, all the blood, and the lifelessness of his pale blue eyes.

Fear and sorrow threaten to consume her at the thought of never seeing them glittering mischievously again, and she moves suddenly as she's able, without allowing herself to think this one thing through; acting fully on instinct, ignoring her incessant need to plan her every move. Just _once_, acting without calculating potential outcomes, without over analyzing and compartmentalizing, without the whispers of her mind of what she stands to lose if she were to let a chink in her carefully constructed armor show.

She bends down swiftly as she rises to her knees, cradling his cool cheeks in her both of her hands, gently raising his chin, pausing for only a moment before those instincts take over fully. She presses her lips against his swiftly, not letting herself think about how much it feels like a goodbye, like it's her last chance.

"I'm sorry," she whispers against them, before brushing her lips against his again, her fingers stroking his face. It's there that she feels the crinkling of skin beneath her fingertips, and her eyes fly open as she pulls back, blinking down at what she's sure is the slightest curve of his lips.

Her eyes narrow as she sits up, a sound that's a strange mix of a muted grown and a purr suddenly becoming audible in the space around them. "Seriously," she states flatly, letting her fingers drop away from his cheeks in her disbelief.

"Beauty and the beast," he whispers hoarsely, his throat sounding raw, his eyes still tightly shut although the barest hint of a smile remains on his blood-streaked face.

"Eric," she sighs in exasperation, although even she hears the edge of relief in her voice, her heart clenching at the mere sound of his voice. "Sleeping Beauty," she corrects him, before she rubs her fingers over her eyes, a surprising amount of embarrassment suddenly flooding through her. "And you did _not_ just wake up because I kissed you. You were probably awake the whole fucking time."

"Was not," he argues weakly, before adding simply, "Tired."

"You can't—" she begins before she pauses to swallow down the anxiety that wells up within her once again. "You have to stay awake."

"Kiss me again," he murmurs.

"Eric…" she begins.

"It'll make me feel better," he adds pitifully.

"Now is _not _the time," she chides him, glancing nervously over her shoulder at the stairs that are surprisingly still empty.

"It was literally _just_ the time, Pamela," he disputes, and she can't hide the small smile that curves her lips, surprisingly happy to hear him say her name despite how uncharacteristically small his voice sounds.

"Eric," she warns, licking her lips before her hands touch his cheeks, nearly startling when his eyes open at her touch, bright and blue, if not a little unfocused. She cradles his head in her hands, swallowing before she speaks. "I…I mean this in the least offensive way possible, considering, but are you…brain damaged?"

"Little bit," he replies feebly, his gaze becoming even more unfocused before it suddenly sharpens, his cerulean orbs flickering over her face rapidly before settling on her eyes once again. "You've been crying," he states, before his own detective work seems to click within his mind, leaving him apparently struggling to sit up, although he barely manages to lift his back from the concrete floor. "Are you okay?" he asks her, his words slurring ever so slightly, "Are you injured?"

"No," she assures him, having been in a lot more pain than she's currently in several times in her life, and she places her hand on his chest and pressing him back down onto his back to stop his futile movements.

"Silver," he hisses at the same moment she hears the sickening sizzle of his skin, snatching her hand away as she looks down in horror at where she's managed to embed the metal further into his flesh.

"We need to get out of here," she whispers, her eyes flickering up from the mess his chest and arms have become with her words.

"You need to get out of here," he corrects her sharply, although the timbre of his voice seems to lack the sternness he means for it to pack.

"_We_," she whispers vehemently, and her stubbornness at the returning thought of leaving him behind suddenly finds her a handhold in the slippery, foggy mess of her mind enough to force herself to focus. Her eyes search his for a moment, before she slowly turns her head, glancing behind them at the door that stands open. "Eric?" she whispers, swallowing before she turns back to him, her voice shaky as she questions him softly, "Why…why was the door unlocked?"

His jaw clenches as he looks away, and she sits back on her bare feet, placing her bloody hands into her lap. A moment they can't afford to lose passes them by before he speaks again, his voice nearly inaudible, although he defeat in his tone is somehow nearly deafening. "Because they knew I could not leave."

She takes a moment to process this, before she slowly nods her head, her eyes dropping down to the chains that criss-cross his chest, shoulders and arms. But with some effort, he shakes his head, the smallest twitch of his chin from left to right. "Not just the chains," he murmurs, "I can handle silver."

"What then?" she asks shakily, although she's already arrived at her own conclusions that leave a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, her eyes already drifting down to his lax fingers; hands that seem to have been trying to touch her at least half of the time she's spent in his presence, that she suddenly realizes have remained motionless by his sides since he awoke.

"I can't…" he begins, his distaste for having to use those two words apparent on his face, "I can't move my legs. Or anything else very much, for that matter." Her eyes grow wide, her hand flying up to cover her mouth as she feels her eyes sting with new tears, but he manages shake his head again, one shoulder barely moving in a shrug. "Not yet, anyway. I've been healing. I'm awake now."

"Eric," she whispers brokenly, horrified that her sudden revelation about the aftermath the bullet left behind was the truth; damage that he could live through, but not without the after effects of a gunshot wound to the head in the meantime. She feels a hot tear slipping down her cheek, and she wipes it away quickly with the back of her hand, forcing herself to take a deep breath. "Okay," she murmurs as she straightens her back, trying to force her decade of remaining calm in the face of impending disaster to take her mind back over, "Tell me what you need me to do."

"Get the fuck out of here," he replies, as if he was waiting for her to ask. "Go, and come back for me, if you can."

"_Eric_," she hisses, not even dignifying him with a response, instead rephrasing her question slowly in a voice that she thinks even someone with recent head trauma could understand clearly, "What do you need me to do to help you _heal_."

He stares at her angrily, a steely gaze that she returns for a long moment until he seems to realize that she's not going to back down, and they have no time left to waste. "The silver," he practically growls at her, glancing down at his chest, "Take it off."

"But—" she begins to argue, her gaze lowering as well to all the places it's fused into his flesh.

"Pamela," he grunts sternly, his eyes flashing as she glances up at him, surprised by the strength in his tone as he speaks though gritted teeth, "Just get it _over with_."

"Fine," she hisses back, rising up on her knees as she leans over him. Her hands rise, flitting over him for a moment before casting a desperate glance up at his face, not knowing where to start. When his eyes only narrow at her stalling, she sighs in defeat, before reaching for the heaviest chain, the one that's draped across his chest, throat and shoulders, its heftier weight helping it sink deeper into his melted skin.

"On three, okay?" she whispers as she wraps her hand around the length that lies harmlessly on the floor. She glances up long enough to see his nod of agreement, swallowing nervously before she begins. "One…"

Without continuing, she swiftly tears the chain up and away from his flesh, tossing it back behind her. She nearly jumps away when Eric roars in pain, angry sounding words spilling from his lips in languages she's never heard before, and she immediate swoops down, clamping her hand over his mouth. She can feel the hard press of his now-extended fangs behind his lips as she leans close, speaking in a whisper as her ears try to tune in to any approaching footsteps, called into action by all the noise he just made.

"I'm sorry," she whispers honestly, her eyes searching his from only inches away, "But you _have_ to be quiet."

He slowly shakes his head, his eyes never leaving hers, and she does as well, gradually pulling her hand away from his mouth. She glances down between them, and suddenly more tears are burning in her throat at the sight of the raw, bloodied flesh she left behind.

"Pamela," he murmurs in a hoarse voice, meeting her watering eyes as she glances up at his face. "The rest," he gently prods her.

She nods her head shakily, before she straightens back up, glancing up at him as he sets his jaw. Knowing they're running out of time, she takes a deep breath, steadying herself. She reaches down, and as quickly as possible she rips the rest of the chains free, throwing them to the side without allowing either of them a moment to rest, leaving his chest and stomach littered with oozing wounds, raw places where the flesh was torn away.

She looks up into his face, a sob catching in her throat as she sees his eyes slipping closed, his already weakened body overwhelmed by the added pain. She moves swiftly, lifting his head in her hands, desperation quickly leaking back into her tone as she whispers, "Eric. _What now_."

"You go," he answers her softly, opening his eyes to meet hers for a moment before they fall closed again. "I'm not going to heal fast enough to move, much less fight, and you are _not_ staying here."

"You need blood to heal," she states simply, realizing that fact and coming to a decision in quick succession. She rises up on her knees, before climbing to her feet, bending down to hook her hands underneath this arms.

"What are you doing?" he murmurs almost sleepily, his eyes still closed, obviously clinging onto consciousness.

"Being your dinner," she replies shakily, remembering that it was just a few nights before that she stated she would be no such thing.

It takes all the considerable strength packed in her slight frame, but she manages to lift his upper body from the floor, dragging him a few feet backwards to prop him up against the stone wall of the basement. His head lolls on his shoulders until she kneels just beside him, taking his face in her hands, leaning his head back against the wall.

"Eric," she whispers as she lets go, her hands moving her hair away from her neck. "Drink."

"No," he replies simply, stubbornly.

"Could you please _cooperate _for the first fucking time since I've met you," she growls in irritation, reaching for him again. Her thumb carefully lifts his upper lip, frowning when she finds that his fangs have disappeared. She glances up to see his face has gone almost completely slack, and acting fast, she does the only think she can think of.

His eyes fly open suddenly when she climbs into his lap, facing him; his fangs making a swift and sudden reappearance as he stares up at her in surprise. She swallows, only the slightest bit of nervousness affecting her voice as she whispers to him, "You need blood."

His face remains completely blank, although his eyes slip from hers, down to her throat and back again, swallowing thickly before he tries to speak. "Pamela, you don't have—"

"Yeah, I do," she replies quietly, her hands cupping his cheeks more firmly as she pulls his head away from the wall it leans against, whispering words that are meant more for her than for him, "I really do."

"It won't be enough," he says softly, and she shakes her head as she draws him closer, leaving his lips just beside her ear.

"It's going to have to be," she whispers, "Because I'm not leaving here without…" She stops suddenly, biting her lip when she feels the cool contact of his lips against her throat, letting the anxiousness she feels from talking without thinking distract her from the fear that it _won't _be enough to heal him well enough to get them out of there. "We're getting out of here," she settles on instead as she moves one of her hands to the back of his neck, pressing him closer as she pleads with him, "Please, Eric."

"This wasn't exactly how I envisioned this happening," he murmurs dryly, and she manages to smile, scrunching her neck up slightly when he turns his head into her, the tip of his nose tickling the side of her jaw. She stiffens slightly when she feels his tongue drag in a slow line up her neck, and before she can rush him again, before she finds herself begging for something that should _not_ be happening, he opens his mouth, sinking his fangs into her throat.

Her mouth falls open with a gasp as the twin sharp points pierce her skin, bringing with them only the slightest sting of pain before her eyes fall closed, a sudden warmth seeming to flood her entire body. As he draws on the wound, the soft sound she made completely drowned out by a deep, wet, guttural sound from beside her ear as his mouth fills with her blood, quenching his parched throat. Her hands move seemingly on their own accord, moving from where they gripped his neck to keep him upright, sliding instead into his hair, barely able to recognize that it's every bit as soft as she had allowed herself, although she'd never admit it out loud, to imagine it would be. Instead, she finds herself focused completely on where his lips meet her skin as her fingers tighten in his hair, holding him to her throat.

Each draw on the wound he made feels like an intimate touch somewhere else entirely, and when she feels his hands tentatively touch her waist through the thin fabric of her dress she can't stop a moan from escaping her lips. The sound causes him to answer in kind, a motoring growl reverberating through her when it erupts in his chest, his grip growing stronger as he drinks deeply, his hands clamping down on her waist, before they move higher, running up her back, his fingers digging into her flesh to draw her flush against him.

The gravity of their situation and the severity of his injuries begins to feel lost on her, suddenly only able to focus on how he feels pressed up against her, the sweep of his tongue across the wounds he made, and his touch as some of his strength returns, holding on to her so tightly she wonders if he'll ever let go.

More importantly, and more disturbingly, she wonders if she _wants _him to.

Her eyelashes flutter as her head spins with the bloodloss and what's left of the drugs in her system, and it's just when the part of her that holds onto some sense of logic reminds her of the possible negative outcome of allowing a starved, injured vampire to drink from her, one that is obviously growing stronger and could perhaps overpower her if he lost control, that he suddenly pulls away from her throat. Her chest is heaving with her every breath as she stares down at his own chest, watching as the wounds left behind by the chains slowly begin to knit back together; in some places already healed back into smooth, unblemished porcelain skin.

His hands still move higher, and she feels his fingers sink into her messy curls, sending a shiver through her unexpectedly. She hesitates when she feels the thumb of one of his hands tilting her chin up, before finally working up the bravery to raise her eyes to his, suddenly terrified of meeting his gaze and what she might find there, fearful that she'll see mirrored in his face what she knows her own must hold.

Something she's still not ready to think about; the whisper in the back of her mind that has become a scream of wants and needs, desperate to be quenched, and sick and tired of waiting.

His eyes are purely turbulent as his fingertips trail down her cheek, and she watches as he takes a shuddering breath before he licks away the blood that clings to his lips. Something about the action causes her to lose her hard won self-control, and before she can stop herself, before she can allow herself to think it through, she moves swiftly towards him, her hands clutching at his face as she crushes her lips to his.

She feels his stunned hesitation for only a second before his hands tighten in her hair, wrenching her closer as he returns her kiss greedily. His lips are soft yet urgent against hers as she tilts his face up, brushing her tongue across the seam of his lips, and although she knows it should snap her back to reality, the taste of her blood clinging to his lips sparks something within her, that turns into a flame once their tongues touch.

As if a switch has been flipped, she's suddenly ravenous, and tired of fighting it she gives into what has felt inevitable since the first time she laid eyes on him the night he saved her when she was alone in the woods. The hungry sounds he makes pulls a moan from her own lips as they move against his, their tongues teasing and tasting as she feels his hands slide down to her back, pulling her flush against him.

He groans as her movement leaves her pressed against his mostly-healed chest, and suddenly it seems as though his hands are everywhere; cupping her cheeks before fisting in her hair to keep her lips against his, releasing her tangled locks to run down her back, before they're suddenly in her hair again, roughly tugging her head back only to crush his lips to hers once again.

Overwhelmed by the taste of him, and the gentle-yet-rough touch of his hands and lips, her desperation for him grows, her entire world narrowing down to where their lips meet and their bodies are pressed together, desire and something else entirely welling up within her, threatening to spill over and drown her.

Her hands land on his broad shoulders, and she uses her grip on them to press herself down onto his lap, both of them gasping and breaking their kiss as she can plainly feel the evidence of his arousal beneath her. Their gazes lock for a moment, her eyes wide with surprise, both at what she still deems a misstep, and at just how much it _doesn't_ feel like a mistake; his eyes dark, his lips parted as he breathes as heavily as she does even though he doesn't need the air she feels like she's lacking.

His expression is unfathomable, as if he's as overwhelmed as she is, but she sees a wordless question behind his eyes that she can hear as plainly as if he had spoken it; giving her the chance to pull away, to put a stop to what even now she considers writing off due to the heat of the moment, and how off guard she was caught by the intimacy of his bite.

But in the end, she finds she can't even convince herself anymore that she doesn't want him, even if she still can't let herself admit that maybe, just maybe, it's less of a want, and more of a _need_. Something she's fought valiantly against, perhaps since the first time she saw him. Something that both her mind and her heart are suddenly agreeing on for the first time; both of them whispering to her that this could possibly be worth risking the damage she knows it will inflict.

"Pamela," he whispers softly after she's silent for far too long, and it's only then that she realizes her eyes had fallen to where her hands still rest against the thick column of his neck. She swallows, before slowly raising her eyes back to his, before dropping to watch his lips, swollen and pink from their fervent kiss, part to say something more.

"Shut up," she whispers, interrupting him, and for a second his eyes widen in surprise at the harshness of her tone. But before he can say a word, her lips crash into his once again, her fingers sinking into his hair as she presses herself against him; moaning at the taste of him, the softness of his lips, the roughness of his calloused palms against her cheeks when he desperately tries to pull her impossibly closer…everything she has to admit to herself she had been thinking of far too often, unable to stop herself from reveling in experiencing the real thing.

His hands move down, crushing her body into his as they move through her hair and down her back, until suddenly she feels his cool skin against her much warmer flesh, sliding up underneath the hem of her pink sundress, pulling a gasp from her lips as his fingers dig into her thighs.

"Pamela," he whispers again when she breaks away from his mouth, her lips pressing against the rough, stubbled skin of his jaw, completely oblivious to how his body stiffens beneath her.

"Eric," she murmurs back, not caring about the blood that streaks his skin beneath her exploring lips any more than she cares about whatever it is he has to say, "For once, _please_ shut the fuck up."

"_Pamela," _he hisses, his hands suddenly gripping her shoulders to pull her roughly away, and surprised by the urgency in his voice and his actions she complies, watching him with wide eyes as his gaze rises to the ceiling above them.

"What is it?" she whispers, straining her ears to listen for whatever it is he hears, but all she hears is the sound of her heart hammering in her chest and her ragged breaths.

His eyes return to hers, and for once his carefully maintained expression cracks, and something she would swear was fear seems to break through on his bloodstained face as he answers her in a hoarse whisper.

"They're coming."


	12. Chapter 12

"They're coming."

Pam's eyes fall from the ceiling above them, meeting Eric's gaze. Her heart still hammers in her chest, feeling more rushed with adrenaline from their kiss than she could swear she is when facing down monsters. Some part of her that still clings to her sanity reminds her that even now, she's doing just that.

She blinks at him, unable to hear anything besides her heart pounding in her chest, and her sharp intakes of breath. She knows the answer to her question before she asks it, but she finds herself speaking hopefully even still.

"Dean?"

He shakes his head, a quick jerk in either direction, his eyes darting up to the ceiling once again, before his gaze returns to hers, suddenly determined.

"Go," he hisses, his hands tightening around her waist before he all but shoves her off of him.

"Go fucking _where_?" she hisses right back, scrambling from his lap to shakily stand on her bare feet beside him. She reaches down, gripping his hand, tugging on it as she speaks. "They took my knife. I don't have a problem with fighting my way out of here, but unarmed? I could probably use a little backup."

His hand tightens around hers slightly as he looks up at her, his expression strangely lost, before he uses his grip in an attempt to rise to his feet. But for all his effort, he can barely get his legs to cooperate, and even as she pulls on his hand she realizes that his attempts are futile.

"Go," he repeats himself, pain etched on his face, as he settles back down against the wall.

"I'm not just going to—"

"Yes, you _are_," he interrupts her sharply, jerking his hand from her much smaller one. "This is _not_ up for discussion."

She laughs haughtily, although she keeps herself quiet even as she hisses, "Fuck you. It is if _I _say it is, and _I_ say it is."

A glaring contest of epic proportions ensues, but she refuses to back down, even when the voices above them grow close enough that she, too, can hear them. She hesitates for only a moment before she makes a sudden decision, immediately snapping into action.

"What are you doing?" he asks as she steps forward, staring down at her in confusion as her hands encircle his ankles. "Pamela, what—what the fuck!"

She ignores his outburst as she uses all her might to jerk him away from the wall by his still mostly useless legs, her hands then moving to shove him down onto his side when he attempts to sit back up.

"Lie down," she growls in a tone that brokers no argument as she turns away from him.

"Pam—" he begins, his eyes widening when she turns around, the silver chains she took off of him just a few moments before in her hands. "Why…what are you…"

"We need more time," she whispers, glancing down at his legs that he still has hardly any control over thanks to his injury, her eyes returning to his as she steps towards him again. "I'm _buying _us more time."

She doesn't wait for him to agree or argue, knowing that they're _out_ of time. She throws the chains across his chest, wincing as she hears and smells his skin's reaction to the corrosive metal where it touches his flesh.

"I'm sorry," she whispers fervently as he bites back a hiss of pain, hurriedly trying to rearrange the metal links to where they aren't touching his skin. "I'll be back when they're gone, okay?" she assures him, hoping against hope that she'll have the chance.

"Pamela…" he murmurs, catching her hand as she pulls away. Their eyes meet in silence for what seems like a long moment, although she knows it probably is only a few seconds, where he seems to begin to say many things before he finally settles on something. "Be careful."

"I will," she whispers back, before she forces herself to turn away, their fingers linking together until they slip apart.

She takes off in a sprint, her bare feet barely making any sound, trying to ignore how wobbly she still feels as she quickly makes her way to her former cell. She can hear a voice on the opposite side of the door at the top of the stairs, accompanied by heavy footfalls, just as she opens the door to the caged-in room. She closes the door behind her, but doesn't allow the lock to latch, hopeful that whoever is coming down those stairs will just check on them and then leave.

She dives onto the cold concrete of the floor just as she hears the door swing open, curling up on her side, mimicking the way she woke up earlier as best as she can remember it, drawing her bare knees up to her chest and closing her eyes.

It's a struggle to control her breathing when she hears footsteps on the stairs, more terrified of who they belong to than she would ever admit out loud. She's fought many fights, quite a few of them alone, quite a few unarmed, but not many of them alone _and _unarmed, while feeling the most annoying need to protect someone else when she's not even sure she can protect herself.

"Cas," she whispers as the steps creak beneath someone's considerable weight, "Cas, _please_. Bring me my brother."

Although she's sure that, in truth, no more than a few seconds pass, it seems to take forever to the person who approaches to make it down the stairs. She listens to his heavy breathing as he ambles closer, but with her back turned towards the door she's unable to even peek through her lashes to get a glimpse of who she's dealing with.

It's not until her captor speaks that she knows for sure who it is.

"You still sleepin', girl?"

She forces herself to remain still as she recognizes the voice of the man who taunted her just before he shot Eric, fighting to keep her body from stiffening as rage, hot and heavy, washes through her. She wants nothing more than to leap to her feet, to stand and fight just as she's been bred to do by her brother and her father before him, but she stays still, only allowing the movement of the shallow rise and fall of her steadied breaths to disturb her stillness.

"That's alright," the disgusting cretin murmurs from just outside her cell, "I don't need you to be awake."

It's all Pam can do not to react to his words, but as much as anger wells up within her, she reminds herself she's unarmed; forced instead to lie in wait, hoping that he will simply pass her by.

Her hopes are dashed a moment later when she hears the jangle of keys, before the sound of one of them sliding into the lock.

_Shit_, she thinks to herself, wincing as she braces herself for what she knows will come next.

"What the fuck?" she hears him mutter as the door creaks open with the slightest pressure. She holds her breath as she hears the man come closer, able to smell his sour breath as he leans over her, taking every bit of her self-control to keep her nose from wrinkling in disgust.

"I know you're awake, bitch," she hears him hiss from above her, but before she has a chance to choose a reaction, she feels the impact of the man's boot in the small of her back, bringing with it searing pain that rockets through her from the base of her spine all the way out to each extremity.

She cries out in pain, curling in on herself protectively, until the man reaches down, gripping her bare shoulder with his hot, sweaty hand. But when he attempts to force her over onto her back, she's ready, her panic causing her to focus even if for a moment, lashing out violently as she uses the momentum of him flipping her over to her advantage.

Her fist makes contact with the man's jaw as he still bends over her, hard enough that his head snaps backwards with the force of her uppercut, his hand flying up to cover his newly bloodied lip as he stumbles back away from her, sputtering out indignities.

She barely has time to scramble back a few feet before he lunges for her, and she kicks out when he reaches her, landing her blow directly to the man's crotch. This time, it's him that howls in pain as he doubles over, gasping out his words as she scrambles past him on her hands and knees.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, cunt!"

"You'll have to catch me first," she replies breathlessly, clambering to her feet before she rushes out of the cell.

She hesitates for just a moment when she exits, feeling light-headed from the exertion, her recent bloodloss, and the drugs that still have yet to leave her with a clear mind. She glances briefly back in the direction where she left Eric, before her eyes turn to the stairs and back again, making up her mind to go back to him, hoping against hope that he's had enough time to heal enough for her to get him out.

But as soon as she comes to a decision, she hears the hinges on the door to her former cell squeak in protest. She glances over her shoulder as she changes plans, running towards the steps instead, to see her attacker running after her, his steps slightly hobbled by her well-placed kick. She buys herself a few extra seconds by pulling down a shelf that she passes, sending cartons along with the metal framework they sat on sprawling across the floor in the man's path.

Although he grunts out a curse in protest, he clears the obstacle with surprising agility for such a slob, giving chase as she tears across the basement. She quickly reaches the stairs, bounding up them two at a time, praying that the door above her is unlocked.

It's then that she feels a rough, sweaty hand wrap around her ankle. The man pulls hard, knocking her off balance, and she falls face first so quickly that she's unable to break her fall, slamming roughly onto the sharp corners of the steps, hitting her in the chest hard enough that the air leaves her lungs.

"Gotcha now," she hears in a growl from behind her, and despite being stunned and bleeding from her fall she manages to twist in his grip.

Well aware of what he insinuated he has planned for her, knowing she'll die before she allows it to come to pass, she lashes out at him with the leg he's not holding, her knee making sudden and sharp contact with the underside of his chin, the sound of bone slamming into bone almost drowning out her hoarse cry, "No!"

Stunned by her blow, the man pitches forward, his heavy weight falling onto her, slamming her back against the steps so hard that the breath she's just regained is taken away again, leaving her gasping for air.

She never saw the knife he had produced while chasing her, not until it's too late. Her eyes grow wide, frozen in shock even as the man seems to collect himself, his free hand fisting in her hair to pin her down against the steps as he rises up over her, blood dripping from his busted lip and a vengeful gleam in his hoggish eyes.

But when he opens his mouth to speak, seemingly from out of nowhere two large hands appear, gripping his head before they twist with a sickening crack that seems to resound around her. She watches the scene unfold as if it's not happening to her; like a movie on the television screen, as her attacker's eyes grow wide before they become unfocused, his body slackening as he falls against her.

She finally raises her eyes when the weight is lifted from her body, blinking as Eric throws the man's body aside. Vaguely, she recognizes that he's standing, although he seems to be doing so with great effort, his body still littered with burns from the silver. Her eyes focus briefly on the only partially healed bullet wound on his forehead, vacantly wondering how he's even upright at all.

"Pamela," he finally says, and she nearly laughs at the tightness in his voice, suddenly finding her entire situation incredibly absurd.

"Eric," she whispers, finally lowering her eyes to where his gaze is already trained, watching the blood spreading out across her dress from where the hilt of the knife the man was holding, _her_ knife, protrudes from her side. With some effort she reaches down, managing to barely make a sound as she pulls it from her abdomen despite the agonizing pain its serrated blade causes on the way out, the numbness of shock now beginning to wear off and bringing with it the reality of the mortal wound that the dead man inflicted.

Her vision blurs as she pulls it free, more blood seeping from the wound to stain the pink of her dress, but she holds it up for him to see, watching absently as her blood drips off of the blade. "Eric, _look_," she whispers, a hysterical giggle bubbling up from within her and bringing with it a sharp metallic taste that fills her mouth. "I got my knife back," she murmurs, her thoughts beginning to disconnect from the gravity of her situation, her words slurring together as she adds, "That's my favorite knife."

The next thing she knows she's in his arms, unsure of how exactly she came to be there. She hears her knife fall from her hand, the metal clattering to the concrete of the floor beneath them as she's vaguely aware that he's sunk to the ground, cradling her against his chest, her head lolling on his shoulder as he shifts her in his arms.

"Let me see," she hears him whisper, his voice sounding strangely hoarse, and she doesn't protest as he lifts the hem of her dress, a breathy laugh escaping her again when her only thought, despite knowing that she's dying, is that she's glad now that she chose to wear her prettiest bra and panty set under her dress.

She gasps out in pain when she feels his hand press against the ragged wound, even though she's sure they both know it will do nothing to staunch the flow of blood. Despite that, the pressure and the coolness of his palm soothes her, her arms tightening shakily around his neck as she whispers brokenly, "Today has been the _worst_ day."

Her eyes rise to his face in time to see his lips turn up ever so slightly in a sad excuse for a smile, his gaze still trained on where her blood steadily leaks from underneath his fingers.

"It wasn't all bad," he answers softly, and even in her current predicament she manages to roll her eyes, but when she snorts at him she ends up coughing, choking on the blood in her throat. Her body's movement as a result sends searing pain through her, causing tears to prick her eyes.

"I'm going to die," she whispers as she lets her eyes fall closed, hating the whininess in her voice even now, "I'm going to die in this stinky fucking basement."

He slowly shakes his head, and when his bloodstreaked fingers touch her cheek she forces her eyes up to look at him, for the first time noticing the near panic plainly written across his normally blank features. She watches as his eyes fall to where his hand covers her wound, both of her small hands now settled on top of his, blood seeping out from between their fingers in thick spurts with every beat of her heart.

When his eyes finally return to hers, she can see by the set of his jaw that something has changed, all the fear and worry lining his face suddenly replaced with what she could swear was determination. "No," he whispers, and her brow furrows in confusion until he adds in a stronger voice, "No, you're _not_."

Her mouth opens to speak, to argue with him, but she finds that she's too weak, all the strength leeching out of her with every drop of her blood spilled. Still, she manages to jump when his fangs suddenly appear with an audible click, groaning in pain as he shifts her in his arms, freeing one hand while the other cradles her head.

"What are you doing?" she asks softly as his hand rises, remembering when what seems to be such a long time ago, but in actuality was only a few moments before, he asked her the very same thing. "Eric?" she questions him again, her eyes widening as he sinks his fangs deeply into his own wrist, his blood dripping from his lips and fangs as he pulls his wrist away.

"Drink," he whispers in what she's sure is supposed to be a soothing voice as he moves his wrist towards her mouth, but she begins to panic, struggling feebly against him, trying her best to escape.

"Eric, no," she pleads, settling on moving her head to the side like a petulant child refusing nourishment when she can't manage anything else. "You can't make me a vampire. Dean will—"

"_Trust me_," he interrupts in a whisper, his voice hoarse and thick with the accent that seems to slip so easily from his tongue from time to time, and she hesitates for a moment, even now trying to convince herself that she _doesn't_ trust him. She knows how vampires are made, the vampires she knows of anyway; knowing that it only takes a mouthful of their blood to start the change.

But innately she knows he wouldn't do that to her, not without her consent, and she's strangely positive that he wouldn't do anything to cause her harm. She knows she doesn't have time to question him, and in quick succession she realizes that she doesn't _need_ to.

"Okay," she whispers thinly, too weak to even shake her head, and her eyes fall from his when he brings his wrist closer, his blood dripping from the two wounds his fangs left behind and onto her chest.

Her eyes widen when he presses the wound against her lips, tilting her head back gently in his grip, his voice taking on an edge of urgency this time as he softly repeats himself, "_Drink_."

She opens her mouth, her eyes staying on his as she feels the first few drops of blood trickle onto her tongue, the taste catching her off guard; different from the tangy, metallic taste of her own blood she can still taste in her mouth. Instead, the rich taste that floods her mouth is strangely both sweet and slightly spicy, dark and earthy and undeniably _him_ even though she knows she has nothing to base that strange thought on.

Before she realizes it, she's closed her lips around the wound, letting his blood flow into her mouth, watching his face as his eyes flutter closed for a moment before they're back open and so _dark_, staring down at her with his fangs bared.

She swallows the first mouthful, her eyes searching his in confusion when she feels the pain she was in lessening ever so slightly, just enough to be noticeable.

Tentatively she draws on the wound, this time feeling the coolness of his blood filling her mouth, watching him as he gasps out in what she would almost be able to assume is pain if it wasn't for the look on his face that tells her otherwise.

She suddenly realizes how much better she's feeling; the deep, piercing ache of the stab wound quieting to a dull throb. But almost more than that she realizes how good he tastes, and even though her mind screams at her that she should _not_ be okay with this, she finds her hand shakily rising to grip his wrist, holding it to her mouth as she feels her strength coming back, this time drawing greedily on the wound.

"_Pamela_," he growls, an edge of desperation to his tone, clutching her closer before he suddenly wrenches his arm away from her grip, his chest heaving as he stares down at her bloodstained lips, "That's_ enough_."

It's only then that she realizes she was midway through making a grab for his wrist in a silent demand for more, her eyes wide when she searches out his gaze, her voice breathless as she whispers, "What…what's happening?"

She follows his gaze as his eyes fall to her stomach, pushing the tattered, bloody hem of her dress up over her ribs enough that she can watch as the wound continues to close before her very eyes, the ragged edges of her torn flesh knitting back together. He wipes at the blood with his palm, revealing a scar that slowly begins to change from an angry red to shiny pink, although from the pain she still feels when he moves her slightly in his arms the internal damage is slower to be repaired.

"Better?" he whispers simply, his voice still rough and yet still somehow so soft, his cool fingers stroking soothingly across her newly healed skin. He meets her wide eyes with his own, looking almost every bit as surprised as she knows she does, watching her as she licks her lips, tasting his blood clinging to them.

"Yes," she murmurs back, reaching up to touch his cheek with her bloodstreaked fingertips as she questions him softly, "How?"

Eric reaches up, pressing her hand more fully against his cheek with his own palm, before he lowers his head, pressing his lips gently against hers.

It's not until then that relief hits her, and her fingers sink into his hair, pulling him closer, his groan at the taste of his own blood on her mouth drowning out her moan as his tongue brushes her bloody lips. But before they can deepen their kiss any further, there's suddenly a fluttering of wings that surrounds them. Pam pulls away, blinking at him before she glances over her shoulder, not exactly surprised to see Castiel standing there, his narrowed eyes peering down at them both curiously.

"Your brother is very worried about you," he says by way of greeting, stepping closer before he suddenly stops, his eyes growing wider than she's sure she's ever seen them as he seems to notice the blood covering them both. "Pam," he rasps, his eyes darting from her to Eric and back again, "What has happened to you?"

"I got stabbed," she whispers weakly, the heaviness of that statement truly hitting her for the first time, but she recoils when Castiel takes a step towards her, his hand already extended to heal her. She shakes her head slowly as his hand falls away, watching the expression on his face change suddenly as he peers at her more closely.

"You've had his blood," he states flatly, so much so that she can't discern his true feelings about this.

"I was dying," is her only answer, spoken in barely a whisper. "I was going to die, and he saved—"

"You can't go down there!" a shrill female voice sounds from up above them, followed by a loud crash as the door is thrown open, almost shattering off its hinges as it slams into the wall behind it

"Just fucking try and stop me!" comes Dean's booming voice, and she raises her head, watching as her brother comes barreling down the stairs, his eyes wild as he lowers his pistol to his side, pure panic flickering across his face as his gaze lands on her, still curled up and extremely bloody in Eric's lap.

"Pam," he breathes, before his eyes move to Eric, panic fading into rage as he hisses, "What the _fuck_ did you do to my sister?"

"I—" Eric begins, but Pam immediately cuts him off.

"He didn't do this, Dean," she pleads with her brother, tugging her dress back down when she suddenly realizes she's still exposed. "You see that dead fat fuck over there?" she asks, pointing towards the man who lies in a discarded heap on the ground by the stairs where Eric left him, "_He_ did this. Eric _saved _me."

Dean glares at her for a long moment, before he suddenly moves closer, his jaw set angrily as he crouches down, retrieving her knife and shoving it into his jacket pocket, before he reaches for her. "We've got to get out of here, _now_. These people are nuts," he growls, hooking one arm underneath her knees as the other snakes behind her back, his next words meant for Eric. "Give me my sister."

She squeaks indignantly as Dean jerks her from Eric's lap, but cries out in pain as he shifts her in his arms, her internal injuries that have yet to fully heal making themselves known once again. But even still, she moves to peer over his shoulder, calling out to Castiel as Dean begins to stride towards the steps.

"Cas, _help_ him."

Castiel regards her thoughtfully for a moment, and she watches as he finally turns to Eric, holding out his hand. Eric balks for a moment before he reluctantly takes it, allowing the angel to help haul him to his feet.

She can see the pain still plainly written across his features as he stands unsteadily, but both the angel and the vampire are quickly lost to her as Dean makes his way up the stairs.

"Dean," she whispers, tightening her grip on his shoulders, "Dean, wait."

"No," he hisses back as he reaches the landing, "We're getting the fuck out of here."

"Dean!" she spits out, leaving a streak of her blood on his chin when she reaches up to grab it, forcefully turning his face down to hers. "_Wait_ on them."

She watches the twitch at the corner of her brother's eye, a sign his anger is close to bubbling over that she knows too well, and although she's incredibly tired from her entire ordeal, she's more than ready to gear up to fight. But in the end, he sighs as he stares down at her, before he relents, pausing for a moment at the top of the stairs until Eric and Castiel join them, Eric's arm draped over the angel's shoulders to help support his weight as he struggles up the stairs.

"What happened to your friend?" Dean asks, and Pam shoots him an unamused glare before she meets Eric's eyes over her brother's shoulder as he and Castiel join them on the landing of the stairs.

"Rough night," she answers sarcastically.

"Rough _two _nights, you mean?" Dean practically growls, and her mouth falls open in surprise, staring up at him as her mind struggles to process this information. She was well aware she had lost track of time while she was out, but had no idea just how much, and the idea of losing an entire day, down _there_, makes her skin crawl.

"Where are we?" Eric asks as Castiel releases him to stand on his own two feet, but still leaning heavily on the angel's shoulder, interrupting the slew of questions she was about to pepper her brother with.

"A fucking cult," Dean answers gruffly, tightening his arms around her before he steps out into the hallway that apparently leads the way to the basement.

It's empty, which sets her on edge more than it soothes her, and she begins to squirm until he finally has no choice but to put her down onto her bare feet.

Her legs still quake beneath her from the blood she's lost, and she grips Dean's arm to support herself as his other hand delves into his jacket pocket, producing his gun and her knife. She takes her knife from him when he offers it to her, trying not to grimace at the sight of her own blood that coats the blade.

She glances over her shoulder at Eric and Castiel as follow behind them, before turning her attention to what lies ahead as they turn a corner, her eyes growing wide as bright light engulfs them once again when the hallway opens up into a large room.

There are people nearly everywhere; men, women and children, and she's suddenly well aware that they're all gaping at her just as she's gaping at them, staring at the bloodstains covering her. She swallows, finding the room eerily familiar, outfitted like a shelter for evacuees, or the homeless; somewhere that she and her brother had wandered into more than once when she was barely more than a toddler, a last resort of her brother's to starve off the gnawing hunger in her little stomach when their father had failed to return home from hunting for weeks at a time.

"What is this place?" she whispers, lowering her knife when she notices a small ginger-haired girl staring at it fearfully, before reaching over to force Dean to do the same with his pistol.

But despite the children present, her weapon rises again when a man she recognizes from both the morgue and that night outside Eric's bar steps forward, an unsettling smile on his face.

"Welcome to the Fellowship of the Sun," he answers proudly, sweeping his arm out to indicate the room at large.

"The fuck is that?" she asks flatly, pointing the bloody knife at the man as he steps closer, feeling more than hearing Eric and Castiel step out beside her.

"We came together the night your friends there decided to make themselves known," he replies, jerking his head towards Eric. "We only wanted to keep our families safe from those _monsters_," he goes on, his voice dropping as if to spare the women and children that are gathered around.

"So let me get this straight," she spits out in a hiss, "You're afraid of getting attacked by vampires, so you go out _looking_ for vampires, and attack them first?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, miss," he answers her, a fake smile plastered onto his face. "We're just here to protect our children—"

"_We_ did more to protect your children while we were locked up down there than you have," she snarls, raising her chin when the man arches a brow. "You'll find your would-be rapist friend downstairs. _Dead_."

She's not sure who stiffens more with her words, her brother to her right, or Eric to her left. The man's eyes widen for a moment, before they narrow, and she's vaguely aware of the women's gasps around them as they gather their children closer.

"Don't listen to her," the man growls, "She's nothing but a vampire's whore."

Pam has to call on strength she doesn't truly have to keep Dean in place as he lurches forward, his face twisted into something akin to a snarl. "She's my fucking _sister_," he bellows, "And a _human. _You want to face off with vamps, fine…it's your funeral, buddy. But this?" He turns enough to gesture at Pam, and the blood that clings to her dress and skin. "You actually think you're any better than the monsters?"

The man scoffs, and Pam stiffens as his eyes fall to her throat, suddenly hyper-aware of what he must see there, and knowing what he's going to say before the words leave his mouth. "What makes you think _we_ did that to her?" he asks, his thin lips curving into a sneer. "She has bite marks on her throat," he spits out with disgust, and Pam can feel Dean go rigid beside her, his head turning to see for himself as the man adds, "Death is nothing less than she _deserves_."

"Then why let us live?" Eric's rumbling voice comes from beside her.

"Because," the man answers with a smile, looking all too proud of himself, "We were going to make an example out of you. We were going to burn you at dawn, Mr. Northman, and let you take her with you."

"Well," Pam replies sarcastically, beyond caring what those freaks had planned for her, and forced now to lean heavily on her brother, exhausted by her entire ordeal, "Your _examples_ invite you to go fuck yourself, because we're leaving."

She feels Dean's arm encircle her shoulders as he begins to head towards the door, but as soon as they move, the atmosphere in the room shifts as several of the men are suddenly surrounding them, and the leader of the group produces a pistol that was tucked in his waistband; the same one, she's sure, that was used on Eric the night they were captured.

"We can't let you do that," he hisses.

"You're not _letting_ us do anything," Pam retorts.

"We were _told_ to capture you," the man says, and his eyes suddenly fall on Eric, "We did. And we aren't just going to let you walk out."

Dean lets out a loud huff, before once again he starts towards the door, dragging Pam along with him. The leader of the pack steps forward, clutching his pistol, but Dean merely rolls his eyes, stopping and leveling his own weapon in the man's face.

"Yeah, I've got one too. Big deal," he sneers. "You said you wanted the vampire, and you've got him; so my sister and I are leaving."

"We're _not _leaving him," she protests immediately, choosing to ignore how livid her brother looks when she speaks, releasing his arm to spin back to face Eric and Castiel, fighting the undeniable urge to leave Dean and return to his side.

"Are y'all going to fight your way out of here?" the man asks, grinning. "Those two are barely standing," he adds, almost proudly, indicating Eric and herself with his pistol.

Eric merely smiles back, almost serenely but for the tips of his fangs that are suddenly visible. "I'll be a _lot_ better off after I drain you and a few of your friends."

"_Not_ helping," Pam hisses.

"Threaten us all you want," the man drawls with his deep southern twang, his face the picture of serenity, "You're only making our cause more just."

"Okay, fruitcake," Dean responds with a roll of his eyes, "Have fun with that."

"Stop!" the man shouts as Dean begins to advance towards the door after reaching out to grab Pam's wrist, pulling her along with him, "Stop, or I'll shoot!"

Dean stops, his forehead inches away from the barrel of the pistol that he holds shakily, a look of pure irritation on his face. "Seriously, man?" he asks with an exasperated roll of his eyes.

"Dean," Pam whispers cautiously, anxiety spiking through her, her hand wrapping around his arm in an attempt to pull him away, "He _will_. What do you think happened to Eric?"

Her brother looks undeterred, raising his own gun in return, and when he once again steps forward, the man presses the pistol against his forehead, his thumb cocking back the hammer despite the uneasy shakiness of his hand.

"Lower your weapon," a booming voice speaks from behind them, startling both men out of their deadly staring contest. Pam turns enough to see that Castiel has stepped forward, his blue eyes narrowed he glares at the man, only now deciding to interfere.

"No," the man answers simply, and her eyes dart between the three of them as he only presses the gun further into Dean's forehead, reminding her all too much of a similar situation a few nights ago, before wordlessly begging Castiel with her eyes to do something, _anything_.

"Lower. Your. _Weapon_," Castiel repeats slowly.

"I'd listen to him," Eric chimes in, suddenly looking almost amused despite the obvious discomfort he's in.

"Why?" the man asks, his gaze flickering between them, "Who the fuck are you?"

"I am an angel of the lord," Castiel responds matter-of-factly, his shining blade suddenly appearing in his hand, seeming to appear from inside his sleeve. "Take your gun out of his face _immediately_."

The man barks out a sharp laugh, the sound followed by a ripple of laughter from the other people gathered around. "Sure you are, buddy," the man chuckles, brushing him off.

Pam's eyes widen as Castiel throws his free hand up, sending the pistol flying from the man's hand and clattering to the floor with a flick of his fingers, all without touching him. Disarmed, the man steps back, a collective gasp escaping the human, non-hunter occupants of the room as the angel's eyes are found to be glowing a bright blue.

"Release them," he growls, and his voice has changed, gone impossibly deeper and positively inhuman.

"I—" the man begins to protest.

"_Release them,_" he booms, his voice crackling through the room like a clap of thunder that leaves even Pam on edge.

"O—Okay," the man stutters, taking a step back. Dean automatically wraps his arm around her, beginning to pull her towards the door, but she sucks in a sharp breath as she glances back at Castiel, who looks like he's about to smite the room at large in his rage.

"Dean?" she whispers thinly, glancing up at him as he turns.

"_Cas_," he barks, shaking his head swiftly when he sees the look on his angel's face as he continues to glare at their attacker, "No wings, man. Let's go."

"He pointed a gun at you," Castiel hisses, although he seems to be broken from whatever murderous spell he had fallen under at the sound of her brother's voice.

"Yeah, well," Dean responds, turning back towards the door, "Now he's not. Come on."

"But—" Pam starts, only for her brother to cut her off.

"The vampire," Dean spits out in irritation to the angel before he drags her past the group of assembled humans and out the door.

She sucks in a sharp breath, feeling fresh air fill her lungs for the first time in what feels like entirely too long. Relief floods through her at the sight of their only true home, her brother's Impala, parked out by the road outside of the large building she had been held captive in, feeling as though she'll be alright if she can just manage to make it inside the car's interior.

But instead, when she reaches it, Dean spins her around by her arm, pressing her up against the car as he glares down at her. "What the fuck happened?"

"It's a long story," she answers breathlessly, suddenly feeling more tired than she ever has in her entire life. When Dean's eyebrow arches high, she sighs, spitting out in a whisper, "They attacked us outside of the morgue."

"Attacked 'us', or attacked _him_?" he asks, which feels more like more of an accusation than just a question.

Her eyes lower from his face, barely able to see over his shoulder as Eric and Castiel make their way out of the building, Eric leaning heavily on Castiel although he seems less than pleased to be having to accept the help.

"They shot him," she whispers, never taking her eyes off the man in question as they make their way closer. "I was inside the morgue, and they shot him right in front of me. I ran outside," she adds, her voice growing even softer, "Someone grabbed me. They drugged me."

Her hand rises absently to rub her neck, where her attacker dug the needle into her flesh that would knock her unconscious for what she now knows to have been nearly two days. "I only woke up a few hours ago," she goes on, although she's suddenly not sure that it wasn't more like a few minutes. "Eric hadn't healed. I couldn't just leave him—"

"Yes," Dean interrupts, "You _could_ have."

"I tried, okay?" she hisses, knowing that it's partially a lie, choosing to omit _all_ that happened between the time she woke up and when she was attacked by the man who shot Eric. "I was trying to escape but that disgusting piece of shit came downstairs. I tried to pretend I was asleep but he knew…"

"What the fuck is this?" Dean asks, flicking her hair away from her neck, and she winces as she can feel the calloused tips of his fingers brush against the twin punctures she knows Eric left behind.

"Your sister saved my life," Eric responds as they finally reach her and her brother, bracing his weight on the car which earns himself even more of a nasty glare from Dean, "And then I saved hers."

"_Please_ shut up," Pam whispers, rolling her eyes up to the heavens in a silent prayer that this situation won't escalate.

"What happened?" Dean rumbles, his eyes darting between she and Eric, before dropping to the front of her stained and ruined dress. "Why all the blood?"

"It's nothing—" she starts, just as Eric begins, "She got stabbed by the human I killed."

"_Stabbed_?" Dean practically shrieks, his hands falling to her waist as he seems to be searching for the source of all the blood.

He stops suddenly, turning his head to look at Castiel as he demands, "Heal her!"

"I…don't think that will be necessary," Cas replies, suddenly looking uneasy.

"Why not?" Dean asks, his eyes darting between them.

Pam takes a deep breath, before she answers him in a whisper, "Eric healed me."

"How?" Dean barks out, taking a step away from her, looking at her as if she's contracted some sort of deadly, contagious disease.

"He gave her his blood," Castiel supplies.

Pam's eyes fall closed, bracing herself, and sure enough when Dean's voice comes, he sounds positively deadly. "He _what_?" he snarls.

"He gave her his blood," Castiel repeats, as if he thinks Dean just didn't understand him the first time.

"Cas—" Pam pleads as she open her eyes to find her brother glaring at her, his arms crossed across his broad chest, his green eyes piercing hers.

"I saved her life," Eric growls from beside her, and she finally glances up at him, his eyes bright despite the blood streaking his face and the wounds that still have yet to heal. "I saved her life, because she saved mine."

"You _bit_ my sister," Dean slowly speaks, his eyes cold and hard when he focuses them on Eric.

He smirks, although he continues to sag against the car, barely holding himself up. "It was _quite _consensual, I assure you."

"Would you _please_ shut up," she whispers again.

"Doesn't that mean you're bonded now?" Castiel asks, looking between the three of them, "If you've exchanged blood?"

"_What_?" Pam and Dean both explode, and Pam turns quickly to study Eric's reaction, only to see him looking slightly put out by her own.

"Not permanently," he answers with a shrug, "There wasn't exactly time to discuss it, was there?"

She barely has time to get out of the way before Dean strikes, and suddenly has Eric pinned against the car, his hands fisted in his shirt. Eric merely blinks down at him as Dean hisses out, "I'm going to fucking _kill _you."

Having had quite enough, Pam finally loses her temper, using what's left of her strength to wrench her brother off of the vampire by the sleeve of his jacket, an action that seems to surprise all of the men present.

"Shut the fuck up," she growls, adding when she can see Eric's triumphant smirk out of the corner of her eye, "_All_ of you." Her chest heaves with anger as she glares at each of them in turn, her eyes lingering on her brother as she adds in a hiss, "What the fuck was I supposed to do, Dean? I didn't have a weapon. I almost _died_. Would you rather he had let me die?"

"Of course not," Dean answers immediately.

"Because I would have," she goes on as if he hadn't said a word, "I couldn't have fought my way out on my own, drugged and unarmed." She stops herself just short of spilling the truth: that she tried to do just that, but found she couldn't, _wouldn't_, leave Eric's side. She notices the way Castiel is suddenly looking at her, that irritating, _knowing_ look on his face that leaves her feeling like, not for the first time, like he can see inside her head.

She rounds on him suddenly, jabbing her finger in the air in his direction, her hand stained red with her blood. "And _you_," she hisses, "I called for you, and you didn't listen to me."

"I heard you," he answers, his eyes wide and irritatingly innocent, "I came when you called, Pam."

"Not the first time," she retorts, "But yet all Dean has to do is wish for a fucking cheeseburger and you show up seconds later. Me? In life threatening danger?" she sneers, narrowing her eyes at the angel, and then Dean for good measure, "Me, you ignore. Until it's almost too late."

"Well, your brother and I _do_—"

"Cas, I swear to fucking God," she begins, ignoring his disapproving look at her outburst, "I've heard _quite_ enough about bonds tonight, and if you say you two share a more profound bond right now I will bash your—"

"Can we get out of here?" Eric asks suddenly, interrupting them, and Pam blinks as she turns her head to look at him, only for him to nod towards the building. "Unless you'd rather continue having this conversation with an audience."

Everyone turns to follow his gaze to where several of the men from inside are pressed up against the windows. Pam sneers at them, only just stopping herself from flipping them the bird, before she sighs, turning back to her brother. "He's right, you know," she tells him, "Most people that escape imprisonment don't hang around outside and argue." His glare doesn't impress her, and she looks instead down at her tattered, bloody dress. "I could use a shower. And to sleep for about a hundred years."

Dean's anger still rolls off him in waves, but after a moment, he nods his head. "Fine. But _we_ aren't going anywhere," he adds with a pointed look towards Eric. "I'm taking my sister back to the motel. _You _can go back to whatever hole you crawled out of."

"No," Eric shoots back, shaking his head, "You're not."

"Look," Dean begins, raising his voice once more, but Pam holds up her hand, effectively silencing him.

"What is it?" she asks Eric, sure that for once he isn't just being an asshole for the sake of being an asshole.

He swallows, before his eyes dart back to the building they just escaped from. "You'll be safer with me," he answers her softly, before cutting his eyes to a bristling Dean. "_Both _of you. Those people could follow you to your motel…they might already know where you're staying."

Dean scoffs in disbelief. "And you don't think they can't follow us to your house just as easily?"

"They can," Eric agrees, "But my 'house' is the largest luxury hotel in Shreveport. With top-notch security."

"Of _course_ it is," Pam groans, rolling her eyes, remembering now that first night that she showed up at their room and his offer to put them up somewhere nicer, making her wonder when he would have let on that he lived in the building. "Let me guess…penthouse?"

"Naturally," Eric responds with a grin, although it's more tight than his usual, still noticeably in pain.

"Eric is right," Castiel tells her brother, who obviously still isn't sold on the idea, "It _would_ be safer."

Pam leans back against the door of the Impala, running a hand down her face in her fatigue. "Dean," she whispers as she hitches up one side of her skirt, replaces her knife in the sheath strapped to her thigh, feeling dangerously close to the point of begging, exhausted and sore and, if she was honest with herself, a little bit shook up from the events of the evening. "Can we please just go."

Her brother pauses a moment, before he lets out a breath, finally nodding his head. He moves past her, opening the door before gesturing for her to get in. Too tired and happy to be leaving to care, she climbs in the back seat, watching as Castiel slides in beside her.

Surprisingly enough, Dean doesn't say a word as Eric slowly lowers himself into the passenger seat, and her eyes follow her brother as he rounds the hood of the car, shooting one last glare at the building that held her as he starts the car, the engine rumbling to life before they pull away.

She leans her head against the cool glass of the back window, closing her eyes, the only person breaking the silence is Eric gruffly giving Dean directions now and then. She turns in the seat, resting her head on the headrest, her hands rising to rub her eyes, trying to pull forth something that's been niggling on the outer edge of her mind. She frowns down at the dried blood on her hand as she speaks, not addressing anyone in particular.

"They were working for someone," she says softly, "Those people back there." She swallows, before she finally lets her eyes move to where they've been wanting to be since they left, although she forcefully kept them away, studying the profile of Eric's face, only lit by the headlights of passing cars as he remains slumped in the seat, the blood covering his face and throat almost black in the darkness. "Do you remember, Eric? Before they shot you? He said something about being sent for you."

"Yes," he answers simply, turning his head enough to meet her eyes.

"You said you had done your…" She taps her forehead, watching as his lips lift slightly at the motion, "Mind control thingy to them. So they'd forget me."

"Most of them," he replies, turning his eyes back to the road. "I couldn't find them all. Obviously."

"_Obviously_," she mocks him, pulling her bare feet up underneath her on the seat, meeting Dean's eyes in the rearview mirror as he glares at her, as if he knows telepathically she's breaking one of his car rules.

"But _those_ people," Eric goes on, his voice sounding tired and hoarse, "Our captors, the man with the gun…they had already been glamoured."

"By who?" Dean asks from the front seat, and Eric snorts, rolling his head on the headrest in order to look at her brother.

"If I knew that, this wouldn't have happened, now would it?" he asks with a poor excuse for a chuckle, and Pam can practically hear Dean's eyes roll in return, but before she can say anything she hears Eric speak again. "May I borrow your phone?"

"No," Dean barks immediately, and Pam finally moves enough to lean forward and smack him in the back of the head.

"Don't be an asshole," she chides him, relaxing back in her seat when he seems to heed her hissed warning, watching him as he gyrates around in his seat for a moment as he tries to extract his cell from his pocket, before handing it over to Eric when he finally produces it.

She smirks to herself as she curls up on the seat, ignoring Castiel's perturbed expression when she stretches her legs across the back seat, hiding her cold, bare toes under the hem of his overcoat. "Now say thank you, Eric," she whispers with a small smile.

"Thank you so _very_ much, Mr. Winchester," he answers immediately in his most charming voice, and for the first time in what seems like a _long_ time, she hears herself giggle. She can see the slight curve of his lips at the sound as his fingers flit quickly over the phone's screen, before he lifts it to his ear.

The lights of Shreveport begin to illuminate the interior of the car as they draw closer, and suddenly Eric's gruff voice breaks the silence that's fallen between the four of them.

"It's me," he says briskly into the phone, "I'm on my way. Meet me at the back door with keys to two adjoining rooms on one of the upper levels."

Just as quickly as the call began, Eric ends it, passing the phone back off to Dean. After a few more pointing fingers and gruff turn-by-turn directions, he steers the Impala into the large circular driveway in front of a towering, well lit hotel.

"This is yours?" Pam asks as she leans forward, squinting against the bright lights after her eyes had grown used to the darkness of the back seat.

"I told you the bar was only one of my business ventures," he answers, before gesturing for Dean to drive directly around the back of the building, past the valets at the rather extravagant front entrance.

The back lot is dark, unlit by all the lights surrounding the front of the hotel, and as Dean pulls into the parking spot that Eric directs him into, Pam catches a glimpse of a familiar face walking towards them, and he looks none too happy.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Chow is already hissing as Eric pulls himself from the car once Dean puts it in park, his heavily tattooed arms crossed over his chest as he lowers himself down to stare into the car, his dark eyes lingering on her brother for a moment before peering into the back seat, positively _glaring_ at her.

She waits until Castiel slides out, before she does the same, wrapping her arms around herself even as she returns the vampire's glare; not caring that she probably doesn't look the least bit intimidating in her bare feet and complete mess of a pink dress.

She doesn't look away from him even as Dean joins her, wrapping his coat around her bare shoulders, long enough on her small frame that when she tightens it around herself it hides most of the blood covering her, although unsurprisingly Chow seems to not be surprised by either of their bloody exteriors.

"What the _fuck _are they doing here?" Chow presses Eric, and although he seems to be barely standing, as drained after their ordeal as she is, his eyes flash as they narrow, glaring down at the smaller vampire.

"Mind your tone," he replies in a voice that, although his words are softly spoken, somehow manages to drip with authority and the promise of bodily harm.

She blinks up at him, before turning her eyes back to Chow, watching him as he seems to almost cower at Eric's warning, before he slowly nods his head.

"The Winchesters are our guests, and you _will _treat them as such," he continues, nodding his head in she and her brother's direction.

"They are _hunters_," he growls, his voice thick with his accent.

"_Chow_," Eric snarls icily, and the vampire stiffens, taking a step back. Pleased enough that he's been put back in his place, Eric smirks, before he holds out his hand. "Keys?"

Obediently, Chow reaches into his back pocket, producing and then passing off two keycards into Eric's large hand. Eric hands them over to Dean, although his eyes are still on Chow, staring at him until he speaks again.

"Sixth floor," the Asian vampire states, before turning on his heel and striding away, not without shooting a dark glare at Pam and her brother. He throws open the back door of the hotel, stepping inside the bright light spilling from within before slamming it behind him.

"What's his problem?" Pam asks, wrapping her hand around Dean's arm as the four of them begin to make their way towards the hotel.

When she glances up at Eric, he's obviously grimacing from pain, but manages to grit out from between clenched teeth, "He's had to be in charge for two days while I took an impromptu holiday. And he doesn't want to share space with two hunters, apparently." He looks down at her, giving her a tight smile as he adds, "Imagine that."

"Smarter than you are, then," Dean snips, and Pam squeezes his arm in a silent warning, stepping through the employee entrance of the hotel when Castiel opens the door for them and into the bright, warm lights.

The workers scurrying around the large stockroom the back door opens up into barely glance up at them as the four of them walk through. Eric, moving slower by the second, brings them to the service elevator, gesturing for them to walk inside.

He files in after Castiel once she and Dean enter, bracing himself on the railing that runs a circuit around the inside of the elevator, watching as Dean punches the button to take them to the sixth floor.

An unsettling silence falls between them as they all stand on opposing sides of the small space. Her eyes stay trained down on her bare toes, studying her now chipped pink polish, but she raises her gaze when she's positive she can _feel_ Eric staring at her.

She looks away, uncomfortable under his heavy gaze, to find that her brother is glowering at Eric, while Castiel stares curiously at Dean, as if he can't figure out what his problem is. And suddenly, she's _laughing_, somewhat hysterically, tickled by the absurdity of their situation; the four of them, all lethal creatures in their own right, all involved in their own staring contests for their own stupid reasons.

"Something appears to be wrong with your sister," Eric says with a furrowed brow as she continues to cackle.

"Don't fucking worry about _my_ sister," Dean growls, and Pam's laughter increases tenfold, nearly doubling over when Castiel throws in his two cents.

"Dean," he speaks slowly, "There's no reason to—"

"Oh my god," she chokes out, covering her mouth to try to suppress her uncontrollable giggling.

"Pamela," Eric interrupts them both, peering down at her as she straightens up, clutching her formerly injured side that aches from all her laughing, "Are you alright?"

She rolls her eyes, running her hand down her face as she answers him. "No, I'm _not_ fucking alright," she replies, a little breathlessly, "I got stabbed tonight, for Christ's sake. I haven't had anything to eat or drink in two days. Except," she finishes, gesturing at him, "Well, you know…"

She dissolves into giggles once more, unable to stop herself even as the elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open. Dean steps between she and Eric before he brushes past them. "I can't listen to this shit," he grumbles, before turning down the hallway, Castiel's eyes darting between her and the vampire before he shrugs, following behind him.

Eric's large hand stops the doors from sliding shut behind them, although he stays in place, still staring down at her. She sobers quickly at the look on his face, swallowing as she struggles to come up with something to say, finding herself nearly speechless after all they had been through that night.

"You're bleeding," she finally whispers as she takes sight of the blood that's begun to pool above his lip from his nose, blending in amongst all the blood that's long-since dried on his face.

"Sunrise is close," he murmurs back, not moving as she reaches out, brushing it away with her fingertips. "Usually I'd have a few hours before this started," he adds softly, grabbing her hand as she pulls away, looking down at the fresh blood staining her fingers, "But I'm not feeling particularly resilient at the moment."

Her eyes grow wide as he tugs her closer by her hand, only releasing it when his arm bands around the small of her back to keep her against him. His thumb tilts her chin up as he studies her face for so long that it's she that finally breaks the silence that's fallen between them, thick and heavy with words unsaid, despite that he seems to have something to say.

"I should go," she whispers, unable to fight the undeniable urge to press her cheek into his palm when it rests there, cool against her skin. When he still says nothing, she goes on, desperate to fill the silence. "Dean's waiting on me…and I'm hungry, and I need a shower…"

"Yes, you do," he murmurs back, and she can't help her smile in response.

"Goodnight, Eric," she whispers, although she makes no move to escape his embrace.

"Goodnight, Pamela," he responds, a little reluctantly, and she doesn't stop him as he leans down, pressing his lips against her forehead. Her eyes close at the soft touch of his lips, suddenly finding herself very much back in the moment that they shared after he drank from her in the basement, her hands moving on their own accord to twist in the tattered remains of his t-shirt.

But as quickly as she begins to lose her self-control, she starts to regain it, swallowing thickly as she pulls away to stare up at him, her eyes searching his face for so long that he finally speaks.

"Go rest," he whispers, "And eat. We'll talk tomorrow."

She nods, before she steps away, moving to stand outside the elevator and watching as the doors slide closed, hiding him from her view.

She sighs, before she turns to walk down the long hallway, stopping outside the room whose door still stands wide open. She makes her way inside when she hears the sound of her brother's voice, placing his jacket that she still wears down in the chair at the small table by the window before lowering herself down into it with a sigh.

"Yeah, I need room service," Dean speaks brusquely into the hotel phone that he holds to his ear, before he covers the receiver, glancing over at her as she rubs her temples. "What do you want, sis? Cheeseburger? How about a filet and lobster tail, since your _boyfriend_ is paying?"

"Fuck you," she hisses back, "And it's almost six in the morning."

He speaks into the phone without breaking their glaring contest. "Pancakes. And sausage."

"No," she interrupts him with a shake of her head, "French toast. And strawberries. _Lots_ of them."

For the first time all night, Dean actually smiles at her, before repeating her order into the phone, asking that they make it a double.

She slouches back in her seat, closing her heavy eyes, and it seems like only a moment later she's shaken awake by her brother's hand on her shoulder, the smell of syrup filling her nose before she even opens her eyes to see the plates of breakfast food laid out before her. She immediately digs in before Dean even has a chance to join her, shoving an entire piece of toast in her mouth at once, her eyes falling closed in bliss as she chews, the almost overwhelmingly sweet taste flooding her senses.

For several minutes they eat in silence, while Pam tries her best not to eat too fast, the food she consumes just barely beginning to satiate her starved stomach.

"So," Dean asks when she finishes with her toast, pushing the dish away to dig into the big pile of colorful fruit on her second plate, "Did you fuck him?"

Her eyes are wide as she slams down her fork, sitting back to stare at him across the table, able to see Castiel raise his head from where he had been staring in confusion at the channel listing for the television before he looks away in alarm, seeming to try to make himself as small as possible on his perch on the edge of the bed.

"Excuse me?" she hisses under her breath.

"I think I have a right to know if my sister fucked a vampire," Dean answers her sternly, laying down his fork as well, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"_You_ fucked an amazon," she shoots back, "Not to mention _almost_ fucking a siren."

He rolls his eyes, reaching across the table to steal one of her strawberries, popping it into his mouth, speaking while he chews. "You wanted to fuck her too."

"She was a _siren_," Pam growls, "That's what they _do_, dickhead."

Dean's throat moves as he swallows, regarding her with distaste. "Should I take that as a yes?"

"No," she answers, "You shouldn't."

"So you just let him drink your blood," Dean counters, "You let him fang-fuck you."

"Fang-fuck, Dean?" she repeats, running a hand down her face in frustration, "Seriously?"

"And _you_ drank _his_ blood."

She stands up suddenly, pushing her chair back, taking several steps away from him before she rounds, pointing one slender finger in his direction. "I am _not_ having this conversation a second time. I was _dying_. He _saved_ me. End of story."

Dean regards her silently for a long moment, his green eyes narrowed, before his gaze trails down her body to where her blood soaked through her dress, the fabric hanging open just above her hip where the blade that nearly took her life ripped through. His face seems to soften as he rises to his feet, taking the few steps necessary to stop in front of her.

His hand grips her chin, tilting her head up so that she's forced to meet his eyes, although she seems intent on looking anywhere else but. "I don't like it," he says vaguely, not exactly making it clear what part of the evening's happenings that he doesn't like, "But…I guess I'm glad you're not dead."

She can't help but smile at his flat tone, his emotional handicap making itself known. Taking the initiative, she steps forward, wrapping her arms around his waist as she presses her cheek against his chest, sighing in relief as he puts his arms around her, the familiar scent of him putting her at ease.

"I love you, Dean," she whispers.

"Yeah, yeah," he responds, pressing his lips against the top of her head, making her smile, before he pulls away. "Enough of this chick-flick shit," he groans, chucking his knuckles affectionately beneath her chin. "Go take a shower, you reek."

"I think sometimes you forget I _am_ a chick," she retorts, but turns, padding towards the bathroom.

"No you're not," he replies with a laugh that's punctuated by the springs of the bed groaning beneath him as he plops down next to Castiel.

"She's…not?" she hears Cas curiously ask as she enters the bathroom, rolling her eyes before she shuts the door behind her.

It's only a moment later that she throws the door back open, grinning widely when both men jump up from where they were sitting awfully close together, her brother's cheeks blazing bright red below his green eyes. "What?" he snaps.

"I need my things," she answers, stepping back out into the room. "We need _our_ things."

"I'll go get them later," Dean replies, waving her back towards the shower that she so desperately needs.

"Dean," she sighs, "The whole reason we're here is because those redneck assholes probably know where we were staying. Do you really want them to go there and somehow break in? What if they take our stuff? What about all our research? Our weapons?" Her voice raises an octave or two, becoming slightly screechy as she adds in a panic, "My _Louboutins_?"

"I'm _so_ sure a bunch of fat, middle-aged men will go for your shoes first, Pam," Dean replies with a roll of his eyes.

"What if they have a shoe fetish, Dean?" she whines, "And I don't have any clothes to put on after my shower." She pokes out her bottom lip at him, using the pout that has bent her big brother to her will a million times in her life as she adds, "I want my Kermit pajamas."

"Fine," he sighs, "Whatever. Just put that lip up before someone trips over it."

She grins as she makes her way back to the chair she formerly occupied, stopping only long enough to rise up on her tiptoes and plant a kiss on her brother's rough cheek.

"Take Cas with you," she suggests, smirking at the suspicious look both men give her as she sits down in the chair by the window, her brother's coat protecting the upholstery from the blood staining her dress. "You never know, they could be there already," she explains, "Better to have backup, wouldn't you say?"

"Lot of good it did you," Dean replies with a roll of his eyes, gesturing for Cas to come with him. "Fine, we'll go. I'll clean out our motel room. But we are _not_ staying here any longer than we have to."

"Be careful," she whispers, choosing to ignore the last part of his statement. Her brother nods curtly, before he's out the door, the tan jacket belonging to his angel disappearing behind him.

She waits a whole five minutes before she, too, leaves the room.

She stops for long enough to scribble a note on the pad by the phone, stating simply _still in the building_, before she wanders out the door, padding barefoot down the hallway. She bypasses the public elevator, heading instead for the one designated for staff only, having to wait a few minutes until it arrives once she pushes the button.

She steps inside, and hesitates only a moment before she pushes the button marked simply with a "P", leaning up against the wall inside until the doors slide open once again.

She blinks in surprise when she comes face to face with a rather large man, standing sentry in the small entryway that the elevator opens up into. As if he thinks he's one of the guards in the funny hats around Buckingham Palace, he doesn't say a word or move, his eyes shifting to her for a moment before back straight ahead again.

"Um," she says, her eyes widening when the hulking man's gaze falls on her once more, "I'm just…"

She stops, not really having any idea how to explain why she's there, _uninvited_, outside of Eric's door, when she doesn't truly know herself. The man still doesn't turn his eyes back to her, and her brows wrinkle in confusion, before she points towards the door.

"Are you like…guarding him or something?" she asks, blinking when she gets no reaction. "Well I...I'm just going to…go in…" she stutters out, watching the man carefully, bewildered by his stoic silence as she reaches for the doorknob, as if she expects him to attack her, "Okay?"

Again, she gets no response, and so she shrugs one shoulder before she turns towards the door. When she twists the knob, she's somewhat surprised to actually find it open, and she steps in, quickly shutting the door behind her before she can stop herself.

Her eyes dart around the opulent sitting room she finds herself in, decorated sparsely in a clean, modern style. Suddenly unsure, she lingers in the doorway for a moment, wringing her hands in front of her as she questions what in the world she thinks she's doing.

But even as she considers turning back, she finds her feet carrying her forward, resting her hand on the soft black leather of one of the chairs arranged around the large fireplace, blinking for a moment at the large, old-looking broadsword that sits on a stand on the mantle.

It takes her brain a moment to register how old the weapon is, that it's _his,_ and seconds later the knowledge of just how much she's intruding sets in; especially when she once again admits to herself that she has no idea what she's doing there. But just as she turns to leave, she hears a deep voice coming from deeper in the penthouse.

"I'm in here."

She swallows as she turns back, hesitating for a moment before she begins to walk softly towards the sound of his voice. She peeks into the first door she comes to, frowning when she only finds an empty office, before she wanders further into the hallway, pushing open the next door wider before looking inside.

It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness, but eventually she can make out a large bed, and the paleness of his skin as he lounges on his side, his face half-way buried in a dark sheet-covered pillow.

His long arm is flung across it, hanging off the edge of the bed, and as she steps a little further into the doorway, peering through, she could swear she sees the smallest fluttering of his fingers in a weak wave.

"Your so-called security sucks," she states simply.

"Oh?" he responds, sitting up slightly, just enough for her to see the blood that still streaks his face. Her eyes widen ever so slightly as the covers fall back enough for her to see that he's shirtless, leaving her reaching for the doorframe, wrapping her hand around the wood in an attempt to keep herself in place; although she's not sure which direction she plans on running.

"I just kind of…walked in here," she points out, unable to hide her small smile when he snorts.

"And why did you do that?" he asks, watching her as she takes a step further into his room.

She shrugs, clasping her hands in front of her as she leans up against the wall next to the door. "I was going to take a shower, but all my clothes are at the motel," she begins weakly, her eyes dropping to her feet, "Dean went to get them, but—"

"Pamela," he interrupts, although his voice is still soft, "Answer the question."

"I…" she starts, swallowing thickly as she looks everywhere in the room but at the vampire stretched out on the very large, very comfortable looking bed before her. "I was…wondering if…I was thinking maybe you would have something I could borrow to wear?"

The sound of his chuckle fills the room, and she can see the flash of his white teeth in the dim light that filters through the doorway from the sitting room as he slowly rolls over onto his back, propping himself up with some effort on the pillows behind him. "Has anyone ever told you you're full of shit?" he asks, tucking one hand behind his head as he regards her.

"And you're not?" she retorts.

"I didn't say _that_," he replies, tilting his head as he regards her curiously, "But _I'm_ not the one that walked past the robes that my hotel so kindly supplies in each of our rooms to come ask to borrow a shirt."

She barely hears him, her eyes drawn to the pale expanse of his incredibly muscled chest, although even in the semi-darkness she can still see the dark patches on his skin where the silver burns have yet to heal.

Before she can stop herself, she's slowly walking closer, until she reaches the edge of the bed. Tentatively, she reaches out, brushing her fingers across one of the indented wounds on his shoulder, her eyes darting up to his as she whispers, "Why aren't you healing?"

"I will," he replies noncommittally.

"I gave you my blood," she reminds him, pulling her hand away.

"You did," he replies, looking every bit like he's hiding a triumphant smile at the memory, although for the most part his face remains completely blank. "And then I gave you _mine_."

She blinks down at him for a moment as realization slowly begins to dawn upon her, her voice scarcely a whisper when she speaks. "You didn't have enough to spare, did you?"

He only shrugs in response, and she steps closer until her thighs are touching the bed, peering down at him curiously. "Why would you do that?" she asks.

"I weighed my options," he answers, shrugging again.

She nods, choosing not to pester him any further, instead doing some weighing of options of her own. After a moment, she speaks softly, her eyes searching his as she whispers, "Can I borrow a shirt?"

"Of course," he replies with a small smile, flicking his finger to indicate something behind her, although she can't seem to look at anything but him. "Closet's over there."

"Thanks," she breathes, but she still makes no effort to move away.

"Use my shower," he goes on, and she nearly jumps when she feels his cool fingertips brush her own as her hands still hang limply by her side. She doesn't pull away as his fingers slide through hers, only arching a brow in disbelief as he adds, "I insist."

"There's a shower in my room," she answers slowly, eyeing him warily.

"Mine's better," he replies with a grin, tugging her closer by his now firm hold on her fingers.

"Let me guess," she shoots back with a roll of her eyes, although she allows him to tug her down until she's perched on the edge of the bed, still a safe distance away from him, "It's better because you'll be in there, too?"

"I would _love_ to join you," he replies gruffly, his fingers dancing up her arm until she yanks her hand from his reach, "But unfortunately, I'm in no shape to be nothing less than a perfect gentleman."

"Oh," she whispers, surprised at the disappointment she feels momentarily before she notices his lips twitching up in a grin. She scowls at him, before she tilts her head, looking down at him and the still raw-looking wounds that never had the chance to heal, her voice soft when she speaks, "Are you going to be okay?"

"With some rest, and more blood," he answers with a nod of his head, "I should be fine within a day or two. I will need to lay low until then," he adds, sighing as if he's irritated by that fact, "I can't risk meeting one of our many enemies like this."

"You lost a lot of blood," she states quietly.

"I did," he agrees, "Almost too much."

"But you still saved me," she whispers, looking down at her fingers where her hands are folded in her lap, still struggling with her disbelief that not only did he save her, he put his _own_ life in danger to do so.

"Go get cleaned up," he responds instead of answering her, and although she doesn't look up, she can feel his gaze on her. "I would very much like to see you again, Pamela, before I rest."

"Okay," she breathes, standing from the bed, before she wanders into the bathroom. She shuts the door firmly behind her, and when she turns the lock just in case, she hears his amused chuckle filter from the bedroom, causing her to grin to herself before she turns back to the room.

Her eyes drift over the shining white marble on nearly every surface, taking a moment to study the huge, Eric-sized tub, before she makes her way over to the shower that is easily twice the size of any shower she's ever had the pleasure of using.

So exhausted that she's moving nearly on autopilot at this point, she twists the confusing set of knobs inside the shower until the multiple showerheads inside begin to spray hot water, before she pulls what _was_ her favorite dress over her head, tossing it to the heated marble floor below her feet.

She frowns as her prettiest bra and panty set join it, both of them stained with her blood, but her urge to get clean and warm cuts her mourning short. She quickly unbuckles her thigh holster, before climbs in the shower, and although she knows Eric can hear it, and probably enjoys it way too much, she can't help her moan when she steps under the stream.

She tilts her head back as the water soaks through her hair, feeling it cascade down her sore body, soothing every ache and pain that remains even after he fed her his blood. Her hands run over her skin, lowering her eyes to watch as her blood turns the water running off of her red, leaving pink swirls over the white marble as it circles down the drain.

She reaches for the only bottle of shampoo on the shelf, barely paying it any attention until she opens it, and the smell that drifts from the bottle to fill her nose is a scent she's only smelled on _him_, abruptly reminding her of whose shower she stands in, whose shampoo she's about to use, and who lies stretched out in a bed in the next room, waiting for her.

Then, she realizes, that her inner dialogue never once mentioned _what _is waiting on her. "He's a vampire," she murmurs out loud to herself, praying that he can't hear her over the water. "You're a _hunter_, what the fuck."

But even as she tries to convince herself, she loses some of her vehemence as she begins to wash her hair, the large room filling up the room and her senses with the scent of him, clouding her thoughts once again.

By the time her hair is rinsed clean, and she glances down to see the smooth skin over the curve of her hip where there isn't even the slightest sign that only an hour before it was ripped open raggedly by her own blade. But all she can think about at the sight is what he's done for her, so surprisingly selfless considering the risk to his own life that he took.

Saving her has left him compromised, and that thought is what is in the forefront of her mind when she comes to a decision.

A few moments later she exits the bathroom in a billowing cloud of fog from the steaming hot water, her small frame wrapped in the soft black robe she found hanging on the back of the door that's easily two feet too long for her, her towel-dried hair hanging in ringlets around her shoulders. She barely spares him a glance as she makes her way to the closet he pointed out before her shower, feeling around on the wall until she finds the switch for the light.

She can't help but roll her eyes when the ridiculously large closet is illuminated, somehow not shocked to find it lined with clothes, or to find that they are nearly all in varying shades of black and grey, since that's all she's ever seen him in.

Still feeling like she's intruding, even more now as she stands in his closet, in his robe that reeks of him, she quickly tugs a shirt close to her down off its hanger. It takes her only a moment to ditch his robe, before pulling the much too large shirt onto her arms, her fingers clumsily fastening the buttons. She rolls the sleeves up so that they aren't hanging past her fingers, and is relieved when she looks down to see that the bottom of the dress shirt hangs further down her thighs than her former skirt did.

After an internal peptalk, reminding herself of what she's doing and more importantly, _why_, she leans down to scoop up his robe before she walks out of the closet. Eric's eyes are closed when she walks by the bed once more, his ridiculously long lashes fanning out over his bloodstained cheeks, and so she continues on to the bathroom, carefully hanging up his robe where she found it before she wets a washcloth with warm water.

His eyes stay closed up until the moment she crawls up on the bed beside him, his eyes widening before they narrow, darkening as his gaze sweeps over her, settling on her bare legs where they're folded beneath her.

"Pamela," he whispers hoarsely, "You look…what are you doing?"

She smirks as he looks completely bewildered, watching her as she switches on the lamp at his bedside, before she reaches toward him with the washcloth, raising her eyebrow as he reaches up, wrapping his hand around her wrist to stop her.

"I'm not looking at this all day," she murmurs, and he allows her to begin wiping the blood away from his cheek, his eyes wide as he watches her with a strange expression, his fingers loosening their grip on her wrist but never falling away.

She works in silence, glancing up to find his eyes regarding her curiously every so often as she watches the blood disappear, revealing the pale, stubbled skin of his cheek underneath. She moves the cloth over his chin, before starting on the other cheek, only looking up again when he speaks softly, her hand stilling at the sound of his voice.

"You are _so_ beautiful," he breathes, almost as if he doesn't mean to be speaking out loud, and he seems to shake himself when he realizes she's caught him in an unguarded moment, one corner of his mouth lifting up into a smirk as he adds, "And terrifying, of course."

"Same to you," she answers, smiling shyly before setting to work once again. "You _should_ be terrified," she adds softly, still smiling slightly as she wipes away the blood at his temple, "I could kill you right now. I _should_ kill you right now. It would be so easy."

"You should at least wait until I can put up a fair fight, Pamela," he whispers, his thumb brushing over the pulse point in her wrist in a way that feels more intimate than the touch truly is.

She smiles softly as she nods her head in silent agreement, but her smile slips away as she moves to clean away the blood on his forehead, a sick feeling welling within her as it reveals the only partially healed entrance wound from where he was shot. And although she had been trying her best to pretend most of what happened earlier in the evening never happened at all, she suddenly remembers how lifeless he was when she found him in that basement, and the sickening mess of blood and gore she felt when she had cradled his head, from where the bullet exited.

Her eyes follow her fingers as she lets her fingertips brush over it, her voice barely a whisper when she questions him, "Does it hurt?"

"Burns," he whispers back, "It was a silver bullet."

"_What_?" she exclaims, "How did they know about silver? And how did they obtain it so fast? I mean, Dean and I have silver bullets, but we also knew vampires existed before two days ago." She falls silent as he merely arches a brow, leaning closer to peer into the wound as if she can see through it. "Is it still in there?"

As he chuckles, she's suddenly aware of how close she's brought their lips together, and she promptly sits back once again. "No," he replies ignoring her other questions for now, his voice sounding hoarse and tired, "Went straight through."

"But you'll…" she begins, stopping to swallow to steady her voice before she finishes, "But you'll be okay. You'll heal."

He smiles softly before he nods his head slowly, giving her a pointed look. "As long as I can heal without _someone_ interfering with my health, yes."

She grimaces, wondering again how he was able to get up, to walk out of there, to talk, to _save_ her after what he had gone through; or that he would be willing to at all. The thought reminds her of her plan, her purpose, and she sighs as she looks down into his mostly clean face.

"Okay," she answers after a long moment, moving to place the now bloodstained rag on the table beside her, before she turns back to him, "Scoot over."

"What?" he questions, his face screwing up in confusion.

"I'm staying here," she replies, poking him carefully in the shoulder between the scars of his burns.

"Why?" he asks quietly.

"Because your security sucks, I told you," she answers, "I'll stay here while you rest, to make sure you're safe while you heal. It's the _least_ I can do, really."

He shakes his head, looking taken aback. "Pamela…I don't…" he begins, his normally schooled expression betraying the tiniest bit of alarm, "I…I do not rest with humans."

"Okay," she replies, although she can't help but feel the slightest bit hurt, even though she realizes how ridiculous that is, "Fine. I'll just…"

"No," he practically growls as she makes to stand up, gripping her wrist again with surprising strength, keeping her securely in place beside him. She looks down at where he holds onto her, but for once doesn't shake him off, before she glances up to see his strange expression. "I…" he starts, before he swallows thickly, his eyes searching hers as he speaks in a hushed whisper,"Don't…don't go."

"But I thought—"

"Stay," he interrupts, his expression surprisingly earnest as he holds her gaze, "Stay with me."

She's silent for a moment before she finally nods her head, smiling softly down at him. "Okay," she whispers, watching as a smile slowly creeps across his own lips. "So scoot over."

His smile fades, his eyes narrowing as he argues with her, "This is _my_ side of the bed."

"You just said you rest alone," she replies with a roll of her eyes, "And when I came in you were sprawled across the whole thing."

"It's my bed to sprawl on," he answers incredulously, "_All_ of it."

"Move over or I'll go back to my room and leave you here alone," she threatens, and with a long suffering sigh, he slowly makes room for her, moving over a few inches. She eyes the small space he's made, raising an eyebrow as she adds sternly, "Further, Eric."

"Why?" he mutters petulantly, although he complies, moving to the other edge of the bed before plopping back down on the pillows, staring up at her with the most pitiful eyes she's ever seen on anyone besides a child or a puppy. "I want to cuddle."

"Vampires and hunters don't _cuddle_, Northman," she replies sharply, beginning to pull back the blankets and sheets before she stops herself. Fearful of what she might find, or rather _not_ find, him wearing below, she only pulls back the blankets, leaving the sheet in place before sliding her feet under it. "Besides," she adds, trying to ignore the way he stares at her bare legs before they disappear under the blankets, "This side of the bed is closer to the door." She twists her body so that she can reach to turn off the lamp, smirking at him as she settles down beside him, turning on her side to face him, elaborating when she can barely make out his raised brow in the darkness. "So I can protect you if someone comes in."

He laughs softly, and even though she can barely see it coming, she doesn't jump when he reaches out, his fingers brushing one of her damp curls behind her ear.

"And how do you plan to protect me, little Pamela?" he asks with a somewhat patronizing tone, his white teeth bright in the darkness as he grins, "Are you going to pull back the covers in your sleep? Scare them away with my cock?"

Her answering smirk also borders on condescending as she silently pulls the covers back to expose her legs, before tugging the shirt she wears up slightly, revealing the knife and holster that was the first thing she put back on after her shower, strapped around her slender thigh.

"I'm a light sleeper," she whispers with a grin, "And _mine _is scarier than yours."

"Until I'm better, anyway," he concedes, and she can't help but giggle as she lies back down, pulling the blankets up around her once again, tucking them underneath her chin.

She studies him in silence once both their smiles fade away, her eyes adjusting just enough to be able to make out his features in the darkness, and the dark streak of blood that's pooled beneath his ear.

"You should rest," she murmurs, reaching out before she can stop herself to wipe it away, wrinkling her nose when she turns her fingers back to face her at the blood darkening her skin.

"As should you," he replies quietly. He catches her hand as she tries to return it to her side of the bed, and she watches with wide eyes as he brings her fingers to his lips, taking a sharp breath as his tongue brushes against her fingertips.

"Eric…" she whispers shakily, although she finds she's still unable to pull her hand away as he presses his lips to the tip of each finger, his eyes never moving away from hers.

"You shed tears for me," he murmurs, his eyes still piercing hers even though his lids seem heavier, his movements more sluggish. "When you woke me…before you _kissed_ me," he adds with a pointed look, as if he's been waiting patiently for the opportunity to remind her of it, "You cried for me."

"I…" she begins, swallowing down the panic welling within her, unsure of how to answer his question without leaving herself even more exposed than she already feels. "I was…afraid," she finally settles on, looking away from him, trying to ignore her sudden urge to scramble across the bed and into his arms, the consequences of _that_ particular action be damned.

His chuckle is quiet, his fingers leaving hers to touch her chin to turn her eyes back to his. "I didn't know you were capable of feeling afraid," he murmurs.

"Sometimes," she whispers back, hating to even have to admit it out loud, knowing that she's making it apparent she has a chink in her carefully constructed armor.

Even in the darkness, she can see the depth to his blue eyes as he stares at her, as if his gaze alone can pull unspoken questions and their answers from her without a word passing between them. Finally, he smiles, most of which is only visible in the small crinkles that form in the corners of his eyes.

"Does that mean you would miss me if I were gone, Pamela?" he asks softly.

"Will you miss me _when_ I'm gone?" she asks, her voice suddenly tight as the thoughts that have been plaguing her spill from her lips rather if she's ready for them to or not, "Because rather I get killed by these grotesque fucking rednecks, for _real_ this time, or if we somehow manage to beat them…and the vampires, _and_ the werewolves, it'll be time for Dean and I to leave town," she spits out in a rush, "Because that's what we do. We move on. _Constantly_. And either way, I'm going to die, Eric, while you live on forever."

To her surprise, despite her outburst, a lazy smile crosses his lips. "You're right. Not to mention the whole hunter, hunted thing," he replies, "That applies both ways, _human_."

Surprising herself, despite her burst of anger, she laughs. "No, it really doesn't, _vampire_," she replies easily, her lips curving up into a grin in the dark.

He snorts, groaning as he settles further against the pillows, closing his eyes. "It's just not going to work out then," he answers, his smile audible in his voice. "Impossible."

"Impossible," she echoes, closing her eyes as well. "And ridiculous."

"You're still in my bed, though," he purrs.

"_Only_ to protect you," she murmurs sleepily, "Even though you're a horse's ass. Because you're helpless…and you saved my life…and your security in your _high_ security hotel is the worst ever."

He chuckles. "Can I tell you a secret?" he asks, waiting until he can hear her nod her head to go on. "I was expecting you. And so was he."

"Nuh-uh," she replies, yawning as she stretches, trying to tell herself she doesn't notice she ends up closer to him than before.

"Yes-huh," he answers softly, "I told him to expect a tiny, blonde, blood-covered little girl with a very bad attitude."

She grins despite herself, rolling her eyes behind her lids, not sure if she's addressing his statement, or his fingers as they brush hers under the blankets when she threatens him. "Don't forget I'm sleeping with a knife strapped to me, Eric."

"I would expect nothing less," he replies easily, amusement heavy in his thick voice, his fingers winding their way through hers, where she allows them to stay.

"Goodnight, Eric," she breathes out, her exhaustion catching up to her despite who she lays beside, and all that lying beside him entails.

"No goodnight kiss, then?" he asks, his voice sounding far away as she begins to doze.

"Don't push your luck," she murmurs back, her voice slurring with her impending sleep, and although she planned to be the one doing the protecting, she suddenly feels strangely safe despite lying with a monster, his fingers stroking her palm so soothingly that she drifts off with his deep voice in her ears, unable to stay awake long enough to manage to ask him to explain his strange words.

"Sov gott, lilla skyddsängel."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Holy shit, what a chapter. Kudos to you if you made it through ALL that. And no cliffhanger, so kudos to me! Thank you for all your kind reviews :)**

**Translations: **

**Sov gott, lilla skyddsängel. – Sleep well, little guardian angel.**


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